LETTERS  FROM  AN 
OREGON  RANCH 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 


LETTERS    FROM 
AN   OREGON   RANCH 


With  Twelve  Full-page  Illustrations 
from  Photographs 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG   &   CO. 
1905 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  C.  McCi.uRG   &   Co. 
1905 

Published    April    8,   1905 


THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS,     CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


c  Jl/TORNING  and  evening  the  bills  throw  welcome  shadows; 
in  the  valleys  are  sun-warmed  gaps,  while  far  and  wide 
stretches  a  lovely  landscape  in  which  the  tracks  of  animals  are 
seen  oftener  than  those  of  men.  Deep  and  undisturbed  silence 
reigns  everywherey  only  broken  now  and  then  by  the  murmur  of 
falling  waters,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  and  the  songs  of  birds." 

From  "  My  Study  Fire,"  Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 


iiO 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Mount  Jefferson,  from  Hoover's  Butte Frontispiece 

"Sheila" Title-page 

Hood  River,  Oregon To  face  page  14 

Lewis  River „  „  34 

Deer  Leap,  near  Its  Mouth „  „  46 

The  Mountain  Stream „  „  64 

The  Watering  Place „  „  82 

A  Bit  of  the  Pasture  Lands  of  the  Ranch   ....  „  „  100 

Bull  Run  River „  „  122 

"  The  Guardian  of  the  Ranch" „  „  142 

Tillamook  Head,  Oregon  Coast „  „  162 

Deer  Leap „  „  182 

Giant  Fir-Trees,  Oregon  Forests „  „  202 


LETTERS  FROM 
AN  OREGON  RANCH 


i 


YOU  write,  my  dear  Nell,  that  you  were  amazed 
to  hear  we  had  sold  our  comfortable  city  homes, 
bundled  our  household  possessions  into  a  freight- 
car,  and  whirled  off  to  Oregon  with  the  foolish  and 
pastoral  notion  of  locating  on  ranches ;  and  thereupon 
you  had  indignantly  remarked,  "The  whole  quartet 
must  be  as  mad  as  March  hares  to  do  such  a  reckless 
thing  at  their  time  of  life."  The  allusion  to  lunacy 
may  be  forgiven ;  to  age,  never.  We  may  not  be  so 
young  as  we  used  to  be,  but  we  are  not  yet  quite  in 
our  dotage.  Don't  you  know,  my  friend,  that  monot 
ony  is  stagnation  and  death  to  the  middle-aged  ?  They 
need  change  of  scene,  and  the  novelty  and  excitement 
that  come  with  it.  The  tonic  of  fresh  fields  and 
pastures  new  is  both  stimulating  and  rejuvenating,  and 
the  Oregon  air  is  an  intoxicant  like  wine,  —  pure, 
vfresh,  and  exhilarating.  We  drank  it  in  with  praise 
and  thanksgiving. 

You   ask  if  we   have  found   our   ranch.     I   answer, 
Yes.      Do    we    like    it  ?     We    are    delighted    with    it. 

9 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

How  did  we  find  it  ?  It  happened  rather  strangely. 
Last  summer,  in  a  purely  accidental  way,  there  drifted 
to  us  a  little  pamphlet  from  a  real-estate  agent,  in 
which  we  learned  more  than  we  had  ever  known  of 
the  beauties  and  attractions  of  Oregon.  We  read  of 
her  glorious  snow-capped  mountains,  of  great  dim 
forests,  of  sparkling  trout-laden  streams,  of  wooded  hills 
and  blossoming  valleys,  swiftly  flowing  rivers,  and  fern- 
shaded  springs  of  delicious  cold  water  gushing  from 
rock  and  hillside.  From  that  hour  the  madness  was 
in  our  blood.  We  said,  Let  us  act  at  once,  and  not 
stand  shivering  on  the  brink.  And  so  the  leap  into 
the  unknown  was  taken,  landing  us  in  a  small  town 
here  in  the  height  of  the  rainy  season.  Then,  "  under 
skies  that  were  ashen  and  sober,"  in  prosy  fact  as  well 
as  poetic  figure,  began  the  search  for  our  new  homes. 
It  was  like  searching  for  the  Golden  Fleece. 

In  response  to  an  inquiry  concerning  real-estate  agents, 
—  strange  coincidence  !  —  the  first  name  suggested  was 
one  already  familiar  to  us  as  the  author  of  the  little 
book  whose  beguiling  eloquence  had  led  us  across 
mountains,  plains,  and  desert  to  the  promised  land. 
Under  his  monitions  we  at  once  took  possession  of 
the  only  vacant  house  in  the  town,  —  a  small  leaky- 
roofed  cottage  in  an  advanced  state  of  decay,  —  un 
packed  a  few  goods,  merely  enough  with  which  to  do 
"  light  housekeeping,"  while  our  lords  were  searching 
for  the  new  Arcadia.  Day  after  day  they  went  forth, 


10 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

clad  in  brand-new  glistening  rubber  suits,  almost  as 
hideous  as  a  diver's  outfit,  we  tossing  old  shoes  after 
them  for  luck.  Night  invariably  brought  them  home, 
tired,  hungry,  and  disappointed.  There  was  always 
something  wrong  with  the  places  they  had  seen  :  the 
ranches  were  either  too  large  or  too  small ;  not  enough 
tillable  land,  or  too  much  tillable  land  and  a  scarcity  of 
timber ;  either  no  water  on  the  place,  or  a  deluge  of  it, 
submerging  a  good  portion  of  the  estate.  So  it  went 
on  day  after  day,  week  in  and  week  out,  until  we  began 
to  compare  ourselves  to  Martin  Chuzzlewit  and  Mark 
Tapley  in  search  of  their  Eden  in  the  Indiana  swamps. 

But  at  last,  one  glad  day,  capricious  Fate,  relenting, 
led  our  brave  scouts  straight  up  the  green  and  shining 
hills  of  Paradise  into  the  country  of  the  Pointed 
Firs,  where  in  a  little  emerald  basin  they  found  the 
enchanted  land.  The  place  was  large  enough  to  be 
divided  into  two  ranches,  each  provided  with  both  till 
able  and  wood  land.  There  was  great  rejoicing,  a  hur 
rying  to  and  fro,  a  hasty  repacking  of  goods,  and  much 
searching  for  means  of  their  transportation.  It  was 
difficult  to  find  men  willing  to  brave  the  horrors  of  the 
mountain  roads  with  loaded  wagons  during  the  rainy 
season.  But  after  a  delay  of  two  days,  three  men  with 
teams  reluctantly  consented  to  come  to  our  rescue,  which 
they  did,  but  bringing  no  tarpaulin  or  any  kind  of  pro 
tection  for  our  goods.  We  had  one  outfit  of  our  own  ; 
and  when  the  four  wagons  pulled  out,  Mary  and  I  could 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

not  but  look  a  bit  regretfully  after  our  household  treas 
ures,  exposed  to  both  rain  and  mud  during  a  drive  of 
twenty  miles.  Owing  to  the  almost  impassable  condi 
tion  of  the  roads,  only  light  loads  could  be  taken ;  con 
sequently  eight  long  days  were  spent  in  this  herculean 
task. 

The  men  drove  up  one  day  and  back  the  next,  pass 
ing  the  intervening  night  in  the  old  deserted  home. 
Finally  came  the  glad  morning  of  our  release  from 
the  leaky,  dismal,  and  now  plundered  cottage.  The 
last  load  was  vanishing  down  the  street.  At  the  door 
stood  our  newly  acquired  surrey,  —  a  second-hand  one, 
a  queer-looking  old  thing,  not  unlike  a  palanquin  on 
wheels.  It  was  loaded  to  the  guards.  As  we  stowed 
ourselves  away  within  its  gloomy  interior,  the  school 
children,  at  the  risk  of  tardy  marks,  halted  to  witness 
the  imposing  start,  nudging  one  another  and  giggling 
furtively. 

We  started  out,  with  Tom  holding  the  reins  and  a 
yard  of  breakfast  bacon,  while  his  knees  clasped  a  five- 
gallon  can  of  kerosene.  Bert  was  clinging  desperately 
to  a  cuckoo  clock,  a  sugar-cured  ham,  and  a  huge  sheaf 
of  rose-cuttings.  He  sat  so  embowered  in  green  leaves 
that  he  resembled  a  May  Queen.  Mary  breathed  heav 
ily  under  the  burden  of  eight  pounds  of  creamery  butter 
and  a  kerosene  lamp  with  a  very  large  shade,  —  a  most 
aggressive  thing,  with  javelin-like  points.  Forming  a 
sort  of  barricade  in  front  of  me  were  piled  a  dozen 


12 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

loaves  of  baker's  bread,  four  boxes  of  shredded  wheat 
biscuit,  and  two  roasted  chickens.  Add  to  these  things 
three  umbrellas,  two  satchels,  a  lunch-basket,  and  a 
horse-collar,  and  do  you  wonder  the  children  giggled  ? 
Why  that  horse-collar  was  with  us  remains  a  dark  mys 
tery  to  this  day. 

As  we  left  the  village,  a  dense  fog  prevailed,  for 
which  we  were  rather  grateful,  as  it  proved  an  effective 
screen  for  our  disreputable  exit.  We  were  hoping  it 
might  lift  later,  as  we  knew  there  were  fine  views  of 
Mount  Hood,  Mount  Jefferson,  and  the  Three  Sisters 
en  route;  but  instead  of  dissipating  it  gradually  thick 
ened,  until  we  were  enveloped  in  a  heavy  gray  vapor, 
giving  us  a  strange  sense  of  isolation.  All  landmarks 
vanished ;  the  world  slipped  away  ;  we  seemed  afloat  on 
a  "  wide,  wide  sea."  We  could  see  absolutely  nothing 
except  our  patient  toiling  horses,  and  occasionally  the 
dim  outlines  of  an  old  rail-fence.  Upon  a  fence-post 
we  saw,  like  a  lone  sentry,  a  great  brown  owl,  as  mo 
tionless  and  rigid  as  if  cast  in  bronze.  Once  from  a 
near-by  field  came  the  clear  voice  of  a  meadow-lark. 
Strangely  sweet  were  those  divine  notes  floating  up  from 
that  misty  obscurity. 

We  had  started  out  in  the  morning  quite  hila 
rious  ;  but  as  the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  road 
increased,  our  talk  grew  desultory,  and  at  last  we  rode 
in  grim  silence.  The  mud  seemed  bottomless,  and  the 
never-ending  hills  were  so  steep  as  to  appear  almost 

13 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

perpendicular.  With  locked  wheels  we  slid  down  their 
precipitous  sides,  only  to  crawl  up  others  that  seemed 
steeper  still,  lurching  into  yawning  chuck-holes  with 
such  violence  that  the  kerosene  splashed  and  the  green 
bower  swayed  from  side  to  side.  At  such  times  Mary's 
lamp-shade  showed  its  evil  nature.  Glancing  her  way,  I 
saw  that  it  was  useless  to  protest  against  its  murderous 
attacks.  Her  feet  were  planted  on  the  horse-collar,  her 
lips  closed  with  Napoleonic  firmness,  her  hat  jammed 
over  one  eye,  the  other  blazing  with  a  high  resolve  to 
carry  that  lamp-shade  to  its  goal  though  her  every  liv 
ing  friend  and  relative  should  fall  by  the  wayside.  As 
we  advanced,  the  woods  grew  denser,  the  road  curving 
around  narrow  mountain  ledges,  above  deep  dark  can 
yons,  where,  crowding  close,  tier  upon  tier,  in  watchful 
guardianship,  stood  the  sombre  sentinel  firs.  A  slip  of  a 
foot  or  two,  and  we  would  have  been  hurled  into  the 
bottomless  pit.  A  native  Oregonian  may  pursue  his  ser 
pentine  way  nonchalantly  on  the  edge  of  these  craters, 
but  to  a  tenderfoot  they  bring  pimples  of  gooseflesh, 
as  night  brings  out  the  stars.  For  miles  our  ad 
vance  seemed  characterized  by  a  succession  of  shudders. 
Twice  did  we  ford  mountain  streams  swollen  by  recent 
rains  until  they  had  become  tumbling,  boiling  cataracts, 
with  currents  dangerously  swift.  These  streams  had 
rocky  beds,  and  our  old  ark  quivered  and  creaked  on 
its  stormy  passage  through  them.  As  the  foaming 
waves  leaped  for  us,  I  shut  my  eyes,  doubled  up  my 

H 


£   .3 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

toes,  and  thought  that  at  last  the  end  had  come.  When 
the  rush  of  water  ceased,  I  felt  rather  than  saw  that  we 
were  scrambling  up  the  opposite  bank,  and,  opening  my 
eyes,  saw  the  dripping  horses  once  more  upon  terra 
firma. 

I  am  sorry  to  take  leave  of  you  in  the  fog  and  gloom 
of  the  forest,  with  night  coming  on.  But  the  night  of 
this  day  is  coming  also,  and  with  it  comes  Tom,  striding 
down  our  woodsy  hill  like  a  hardy  Norseman,  upon  his 
shoulder  his  shining  axe  gleaming  as  did  "  Excalibur  " 
of  old.  That  he  is  ravenously  hungry  goes  without 
saying.  So  I  must  lay  aside  my  pen  and  prepare  our 
evening  meal. 


II 


THE  drizzling  rain  which  began  falling  as  we 
left  the  ford  continued  —  well,  I  believe  it 
continued  until  the  following  June.  Crawling 
up  the  toilsome  ascent,  we  suddenly  entered  a  veritable 
Black  Forest,  a  vast  impenetrable  solitude.  Like  wood 
land  spectres,  the  fir  trees  crept  out  of  the  gloom,  stand 
ing  in  military  ranks  by  the  roadside,  as  if  curious  to 
note  what  manner  of  ghosts  were  these,  lumbering  in 
their  strange  craft  up  through  the  long  green  aisles. 
When  halting,  as  we  often  did,  to  rest  our  tired  horses, 
the  silence  was  absolute.  One  would  not  think  a  great 
forest  could  be  so  breathlessly  still.  Could  there  any 
where  be  noise  and  tumult  ?  Had  not  the  eternal  silence 
fallen  upon  the  whole  world,  and  we  alone  escaped  the 
universal  doom  ?  It  was  an  uncanny  hush,  with  some 
thing  of  foreboding  in  it. 

A  sort  of  unreasoning  terror  seized  me,  and  I  sud 
denly  remembered  stories  we  had  been  told  of  the 
cougar,  the  coyote,  and  the  wildcat  sometimes  seen  in 
this  green  wilderness.  You  may  be  sure  that  I  fell 
a-thinking  of  them.  Were  they  fond,  I  wondered,  of 
roasted  chicken  and  shredded  wheat  ?  Had  they  yet 

16 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

caught  the  scent  of  the  bacon  ?  That  very  instant  lithe 
furry  forms  with  glowing  eyes  might  be  crouching  in 
the  dark  boughs  above  us,  ready  to  leap  upon  our  de 
fenceless  heads,  or  soft  padded  feet  might  be  stealthily 
creeping  over  the  thick  velvety  moss  to  attack  us  from 
below.  Awed  by  that  vast  immensity,  we  rode  on  in 
silence,  and  not  one  living  thing  did  we  see  or  hear, 
not  even  the  whir  of  wings.  Looking  backward  now 
from  the  safe  shelter  of  these  four  walls,  I  wish  some 
thing  had  at  least  growled,  just  to  lend  a  touch  of  inter 
est  to  my  narrative.  The  forest  folk  may  have  watched 
us  from  behind  that  leafy  screen,  but  if  so,  they  gave  no 
hint  of  it.  After  a  time  we  turned  into  a  dim  sketchy 
road  of  twilight  gloom,  made  gloomier  by  the  riotous 
undergrowth.  Low-hanging  boughs  raked  the  surrey 
top,  and  long  green  fingers  reached  in  at  the  sides, 
snatching  maliciously  at  the  lace-befrilled  lamp-shade. 
It  was  a  "no  thoroughfare"  sort  of  place,  but  as  we 
bumped  along  over  stumps  and  poles,  we  were  glad  to 
learn  that  the  agony  would  be  brief.  And  so  it  proved, 
as  we  presently  entered  a  wide  lane,  and  with  sighs  of 
relief  beheld  open  cleared  spaces,  with  a  very  small 
house,  a  larger  barn,  and  sheds  innumerable.  After 
passing  several  such  places,  we  suddenly  plunged  down 
a  steep  declivity  with  a  roaring  torrent  at  its  base,  but 
stoutly  bridged  —  blessed  be  the  saints!  Up  one  more 
rise,  and  the  horses  were  stopped  before  a  rickety  paling 
fence,  the  driver  remarking,  — 

2  I7 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Now,  if  our  lady  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  will  glance 
up  the  heights,  she  will  behold  her  future  home." 

High  upon  a  steep  hillside  we  saw,  through  slant 
ing  rain  and  the  fast-gathering  shadows  of  night,  a  very 
tall  house  of  two  stories,  grim,  gaunt,  unpainted,  frown 
ing  down  inhospitably  upon  us.  It  looked  to  be  the  fit 
ting  abode  of  hobgoblins,  warlocks,  and  witches,  plainly 
saying,  "  Abandon  hope,  all  ye  who  enter  here."  Half 
dead  with  the  fatigue  and  cramped  positions  of  our 
long  ride,  we  could  scarcely  stand  after  crawling  from 
the  ambulance.  An  infirm  gate,  lashed  to  its  moorings 
with  a  bit  of  rope,  fell  as .  we  passed  through.  Going 
up  the  muddy  gulch  leading  to  the  house,  I  noticed  five 
ugly,  narrow,  curtainless  windows  glaring  at  us,  and  I 
noted  also  the  absence  of  a  front  porch.  As  in  a  vision, 
I  saw  the  home  we  had  left,  with  its  wide  shining  win 
dows,  broad  Colonial  porch,  and  round  white  pillars. 
A  painful  lump  rose  in  my  throat,  and  just  then  and 
there  came  my  first  and  last  touch  of  homesickness. 

Steps  of  rough  slabs  led  up  to  the  front  entrance  of 
the  house  ;  the  steps  were  presumably  six  in  number 
originally,  but  now  the  two  lower  ones  were  missing. 
As  a  final  note  of  desolation,  upon  one  of  these  steps 
stood  a  rusty  tin  can,  holding  a  wretched,  sodden,  dead 
geranium.  While  these  observations  were  being  made, 
Tom  was  struggling  with  a  refractory  key  in  a  broken 
lock,  which  finally  yielded.  The  door  flew  open ;  he 
entered  the  new  home,  roaring  in  tremendous  tones, — 

18 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  I  Ve  reached  the  land  of  corn  and  wine, 
And  all  its  treasures  freely  mine, 

O  Beulah  land,  sweet  Beulah  land  !  " 

Following  him,  we  found  it  dark  as  pitch  in  "  Beulah 
land,"  with  an  atmosphere  strongly  tainted  by  mice  and 
mould,  with  a  lingering  dash  of  bacon.  The  soloist 
groped  his  way  through  darkness  to  the  fireplace,  touch 
ing  with  a  match  some  kindlings  and  wood  previously 
arranged  therein.  Then  came  a  hopeful  snapping  and 
crackling  of  lively  pine.  The  footlights  flashed  up,  one 
bright  little  blaze  followed  another,  until  soon  golden 
flames  were  dancing  and  leaping  up  the  black  throat  of 
the  wide  old  chimney.  Oh,  the  glory  and  comfort 
of  it !  Surely  nothing  else  in  this  world  is  quite  so 
cheery  •  and  inspiring  as  an  open  wood-fire.  As  its 
genial  warmth  began  to  pervade  the  room,  now  brightly 
illuminated  from  floor  to  ceiling,  the  discomforts  of  the 
day  and  the  gloom  of  the  night  were  soon  forgotten. 
As  the  shadows  lifted  from  our  hearts,  the  pangs  of 
hunger  began  to  assert  themselves,  and  the  new  house 
keepers  set  to  work. 

On  a  previous  visit  Bert  had  made  a  lucky  find  of 
an  old  iron  teakettle.  This  he  now  brought  in,  filled 
with  fresh  spring  water,  and  placed  it  on  a  bed  of  glow 
ing  coals  ;  then  he  went  with  Tom  to  feed  and  comfort 
the  tired  horses.  Directly  in  front  of  the  fire  was  the 
only  vacant  space  in  the  room,  the  rest  being  filled  with 
crated  furniture  and  boxes.  One  of  the  latter  was 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

shoved  into  the  open  space  and  utilized  for  a  table,  a 
newspaper  covering  its  surface  instead  of  damask.  A 
candle  stuck  in  a  vaseline  bottle,  placed  upon  a  white 
napkin,  served  as  a  centrepiece.  The  contents  of  the 
lunch-basket  were  transferred  to  the  table,  and  the 
repast  was  ready,  with  the  exception  of  the  Java  and 
Mocha  combine,  which  was  soon  made,  as  the  kettle 
was  already  singing  merrily.  We  had  hoped  a  cricket 
hidden  away  in  the  hearth  might  "join  the  kettle"  in 
a  duet  of  welcome ;  but  if  one  was  there,  he  remained 
obstinately  mute.  As  only  two  chairs  were  obtainable, 
the  male  members  of  the  party  were  seated  at  the 
banquet  upon  a  pile  of  fir  wood  and  bark.  Never  was 
a  meal  eaten  with  better  relish.  There  was  no  time  for 
after-dinner  talk,  as  sleeping  arrangements  were  to  be 
made,  bedding  to  be  searched  for  and  unpacked,  —  a 
formidable  task  amid  such  chaos.  Bert  and  Mary, 
groaning  and  perspiring,  succeeded  in  putting  up  a  bed 
stead  in  an  adjoining  room,  surrounded  by  a  confused 
mixture  of  things,  suggestive  of  the  reserve  stock  of  a 
department  store.  Scorning  the  luxury  of  a  bedstead, 
we  hastily  tumbled  springs,  mattress,  and  bedding  upon 
the  floor,  and  were  ready  for  the  "  sweet  restorer." 

But  alas  for  human  hopes  !  Just  as  our  heads  touched 
the  pillows  we  were  startled  by  the  most  terrific  bark 
ing,  shrieking,  yelping,  and  howling  that  ever  mortal 
heard. 

"  Tom,  what  under  the  sun  is  that  ?  " 


20 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  A  pack  of  hounds  on  the  warpath,  that 's  what." 

On  came  the  clamor,  "  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than 
before,"  when  suddenly  the  whole  crew  of  Bedlamites 
dashed  under  our  house.  Bert  called  out,  "  They  've 
treed  us  the  first  dash,  Tom ! "  There  they  were, 
snapping,  snarling,  gnashing  their  teeth,  thumping  and 
bumping  against  the  very  boards  upon  which  we  were 
lying. 

"  Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then."  Armed  with 
her  threescore  years  and  the  iron  poker,  proceeding  to 
the  door,  which  she  opened  fully  two  inches,  she  said  in 
calm  but  firm  tones  :  "  You  dogs,  go  home,  every  last 
one  of  you  !  Go  home,  I  say  !  Go  !  "  Then  a  voice 
was  heard  from  the  department  store,  saying  softly, 
"  Yes,  kind,  good  doggies,  do  go."  And  they  did  go, 
giving  me  the  surprise  of  my  life.  The  instant  my  brave 
words  were  heard,  the  racket  ceased,  and  they  came 
tumbling  out  from  under  the  house,  and  went  scamper 
ing  off  in  the  darkness  as  if  fiends  were  at  their  heels. 
A  human  voice  from  a  house  long  deserted  must  have 
shaken  their  nerves.  Tom,  however,  saw  things  in  a 
different  light,  for,  as  I  closed  the  door  with  a  trium 
phant  bang,  he  remarked,  "  Rather  a  doubtful  com 
pliment  to  your  charms !  '  There  were  no  more 
disturbing  sounds  during  the  remainder  of  the  night,  and 
we  slept  until  the  morning  was  far  advanced. 

Breakfast  hastily  prepared  and  eaten,  a  little  leisure 
and  the  light  of  day  gave  us  an  opportunity  to  inspect 


21 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

our  new  home.  The  room  we  were  occupying  had 
at  least  one  favorable  feature,  -  -  it  was  very  large.  A 
high  ceiling  of  wood  was  painted  an  ugly  dull  brown, 
the  other  woodwork  in  two  shades  of  brown.  The 
artist  designing  the  wall-paper  must  have  been  either 
color-blind  or  color-mad.  Soiled  and  defaced,  the  pa 
per  was  torn  off  in  some  places,  in  others  it  hung  in 
long,  fluttering,  mildewed  strips.  There  were  four 
gloomy  doors,  and  four  high  narrow  windows,  criss 
crossed  by  many  panes,  —  all  dreary  enough,  surely. 
For  consolation  we  looked  to  the  wide  old  fireplace  of 
stone,  piled  high  with  blazing  logs,  shining  for  us  as 
shines  a  beacon-light  to  the  drowning  mariner.  The 
adjoining  room  was  of  comfortable  dimensions,  — 
woodwork  blue  as  the  sky  ;  walls  embellished  with 
trailing  blue  roses ;  three  windows,  five  panes  of  glass 
missing,  for  which  oilcloth  was  substituted.  At  the 
two  side  windows  hung  remnants  of  Nottingham  lace 
curtains,  stained  by  rain  and  yellowed  by  time.  As  we 
touched  them,  fragments  fell  at  our  feet,  like  the  de 
caying  wedding  finery  of  Miss  Havisham.  In  a  closet 
connected  with  the  room  we  found  a  mouse-eaten 
volume  of  the  "Lives  of  Eminent  Women,"  and  a 
stuffed  China  pheasant,  with  one  eye  gone,  as  well  as 
the  larger  part  of  its  feathers,  —  a  sorry-looking  object. 
The  dining-room  was  small  and  extremely  dark, 
depressing  wall-paper  and  paint  increasing  the  gloom. 
Beyond  was  a  kitchen,  big  enough  to  furnish  forth  a 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

feast  for  a  company  of  dragoons.  Extending  the  whole 
length  of  kitchen  and  dining-room  was  a  porch  as  wide 
as  the  platform  of  a  railway  station ;  while  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  dining-room  was  another,  of  less 
alarming  proportions.  The  architectural  marvel  of  the 
house  was  that  the  entrance  to  the  second  floor  was 
from  the  outside  instead  of  the  inside. 


Ill 


"  "W~       ADIES  and  gentlemen,"  cried  Tom,  "we  are 
now  about  to  attempt  the  bold  feat  of  reaching 

*  •  the  second  floor  of  the  house  of  the  Ranch  of 
the  Pointed  Firs.  Having  myself  once  successfully 
made  the  ascent  of  the  architectural  Matterhorn  lead 
ing  to  that  region,  I  am  prepared  by  that  experience  to 
act  as  your  guide.  First,  allow  me  to  inquire,  are  you 
all  wearing  shoes  with  hobnails  and  cleats  ?  Very 
good.  The  ladies  will  need  alpenstocks,"  handing  us 
each  a  bed-slat.  His  glance  just  then  falling  upon  a 
coil  of  rope  used  during  the  process  of  moving,  his  face 
lighted  with  the  sudden  thought  of  further  absurdity. 

"  That  the  exploit  upon  which  we  are  embarking  is 
a  perilous  one,  I  will  not  deny.  To  guard  against  acci 
dents  and  possible  loss  of  life,  it  is  necessary  that  we 
should  be  firmly  bound  one  to  another  with  this  rope. 
Reverend  Chadband,  allow  me  to  begin  with  you," 
deftly  twining  the  cord  around  the  waist  of  Bert, 
whose  clerical  title  had  been  suggested  by  his  having  re 
cently  donned  a  very  old  and  dilapidated  Prince  Albert 
coat. 

Our  self-constituted  guide,  having  gravely  bound  us 
together  and  tied  the  rope  about  his  own  person,  looked 

us  over  with  gratified  pride. 

24 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  We  are  now,  I  think,  in  proper  climbing  trim.  An 
X-ray  worn  as  a  miner's  lamp  would  prove  serviceable, 
but  may  be  dispensed  with.  Forward,  march !  " 

We  filed  out  on  a  long  narrow  porch,  the  surface  of 
which  had  a  thick  slippery  coating,  caused  by  continual 
rains.  It  was  as  slippery  as  if  both  greased  and  soaped. 
An  iron  rake  leaning  against  the  wall  gave  to  our  care 
ful  leader  another  inspiration.  Passing  it  to  Bert,  he 
remarked,  "  If  our  esteemed  brother  will  insert  the  iron 
teeth  of  this  implement  in  the  girdle  of  the  rear  lady, 
giving  it  a  secure  twist,  it  may  be  of  invaluable  service 
to  us  when  the  actual  ascent  begins."  The  "  brother  " 
complied  with  cheerful  alacrity,  especially  as  to  the 
"  secure  twist." 

At  the  end  of  the  porch  a  door  opened  into  a  dark 
closet.  Directly  opposite  was  an  extremely  narrow 
stairway,  almost  as  nearly  perpendicular  as  a  fire-escape, 
with  sides  roughly  boarded  up.  It  was  as  dark  as  Ere 
bus,  with  not  a  ray  of  light  except  a  faint  glimmer 
from  above.  Looking  up  this  black  funnel,  Tom's 
elaborate  preparations  seemed  less  preposterous.  He 
now  called  out,  "Brother  Chadband,  is  the  hoisting 
apparatus  in  position?" 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  was  the  unclerical  response. 

"  Very  well ;  now,  ladies,  cling  bravely  to  the  rope. 
Plant  your  alpenstocks  firmly  with  each  advancing  step. 
Be  cool,  be  calm.  Keep  your  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
summit,  and  don't  look  back." 

25 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Strictly  obeying  instructions,  we  had  scarcely  got 
under  way  before  our  guide  halted.  "  Perhaps,  if  the 
ladies  feel  up  to  it,  a  bit  of  yodelling  might  relieve  the 
tedium  of  the  ascent  and  add  much  to  its  realism." 

As  the  ladies  were  now  laughing  hysterically,  they 
were  hardly  "  up  to  it."  The  ever-willing  Chadband, 
however,  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  An  oily  voice 
was  heard  saying,  "  I  myself,  carnal  vessel  that  I  am, 
will  essay  a  few  joyful  notes  unto  these  hills."  Where 
upon  arose  a  sound  of  lamentation  not  unlike  the  lonely 
howling  of  a  distant  wolf,  broken  at  intervals  by  a  shrill 
war-whoop.  By  steady  pulling  from  above  and  violent 
shoving  from  below,  we  were  finally  landed  in  a  heap 
upon  the  floor,  in  the  centre  of  a  big,  garret-like  room, 
dimly  lighted  by  one  small,  dusty,  cobwebby  window. 
While  being  released  from  bondage,  our  guide  remarked, 
as  he  glanced  around,  "  We  are  now  in  the  Cave  of  the 
Winds,  a  locality  rarely  visited  by  the  ordinary  tourist ; 
those  glittering  stalactites  above  our  heads  are  Nature's 
own  formation."  It  was  a  true  statement,  the  stalac 
tites  being  long  rows  of  yellow  seed-corn  strung  on 
wires.  A  couple  of  bottomless  chairs,  a  few  joints 
of  rusty  stovepipe,  and  an  old  scythe  with  a  broken 
blade,  hanging  over  one  of  the  rafters,  completed  the 
attractions. 

We  were  very  eager  for  a  glimpse  of  the  adjoining 
apartment,  as  we  had  been  told  it  was  built  and  had 

been  used  exclusively  as  a  ball-room.    Just  think  of  it,  — 

26 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

we  were  about  to  visit  our  own  private  ball-room !  Do 
you  wonder  that  our  hearts  swelled  with  pride  as  we 
entered  that  hall  of  many  past  festivities  ?  It  certainly 
was  spacious,  —  twenty  feet  wide  and  thirty  long,  with 
a  truly  beautiful  smooth  floor.  It  was  rather  cheerful, 
too,  lighted  by  four  windows.  An  immense  alder  stood 
so  near  the  eastern  windows  that  its  leafless  branches 
trailed  across  their  panes.  A  rose-bush  had  climbed 
half-way  up  its  trunk  and  was  swinging  gracefully 
from  its  boughs,  still  fresh  and  green.  From  the  west 
we  looked  straight  into  the  encircling  arms  of  a  glorious 
big  fir  tree. 

Between  two  of  the  windows  was  a  slightly  elevated 
platform,  upon  which  stood  a  nail-keg,  which  we 
inferred  had  been  used  as  a  seat  for  the  long-ago 
musician,  as  an  empty  violin  case  still  leaned  patheti 
cally  against  it.  Here  were  also  an  iron  bootjack  and  a 
perforated  tin  lantern,  suggestive  of  tight  wet  boots  and 
dark  nights.  The  room  was  simply  boarded  up,  with 
no  ceiling,  but  merely  rafters  and  shingles  overhead. 
Starting  from  the  musician's  stand,  were  rough  board  seats 
extending  around  the  room,  supported  by  blocks  of  wood. 
Shallow  boxes  were  nailed  to  the  walls,  each  containing  a 
small  kerosene  lamp.  Near  one  of  the  windows  hung 
a  long  narrow  mirror,  framed  in  cheap  red,  now  badly 
scratched  and  marred.  Lying  beneath  this  was  a  set  of 
quilting-frames,  which  gave  us  the  idea  that  a  quilting- 

party  sometimes  preceded  the  dance.     In    one    corner 

27 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

of  the  room  was  a  pile  of  abandoned  rubbish,  —  frag 
ments  of  an  old  loom,  and  many  broken  and  disabled 
farming  implements.  Tom,  delving  among  these  relics, 
suddenly  shouted:  "Hello!  I've  found  the  'Entailed 
Hat.'  It  wasn't  buried  with  that  old  duffer,  after 
all."  He  certainly  had  unearthed  the  most  antiquated 
specimen  of  headgear  ever  seen  outside  the  walls  of  a 
museum,  —  a  faded  brown  beaver,  with  wide  brim  and 
high  bell-shaped  crown,  which  he  was  jamming  in 
here  and  bulging  out  there,  with  a  view  of  restoring  its 
original  shape.  "  It's  been  a  dandy  in  its  day,"  he  com 
mented,  as  he  smoothed  its  frowsy  surface,  "  and  it 's 
not  a  bad  tile  yet.  I  don't  know  but  I  might  wear  it 
myself  on  Sundays,  walking  about  in  the  holy  calm, 
looking  over  my  possessions.  How  do  I  look,  Bert  ? " 
he  asked,  having  donned  it  and  pulled  it  well  down 
over  his  ears. 

"  Well,  if  I  must  answer,  I  should  say  you  look  a 
composite  of  Guy  Fawkes,  Puritan  father,  and  Buffalo 
Bill,  with  perhaps  just  a  dash  of  Oregon  farmer," 
replied  the  reverend  joker. 

While  this  by-play  was  going  on,  I  had  been  trying 
to  burnish  the  old  mirror's  cloudy  surface,  finding  the 
bluish  haze  was  there  to  stay.  I  thought  of  the 
antique  mirror  of  which  Hawthorne  tells  us,  that  hung 
in  the  old  Province  House,  —  the  one  old  Esther 
Dudley  so  often  stood  before,  leaning  upon  her  gold- 
headed  staff,  seeing  pass  across  its  blurred  surface  in 

28 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

shadowy  procession  the  pomp  and  pageantry  of  the 
past.  As  the  others  came  up,  I  said,  — 

"  We  have  a  real  treasure  here  !  " 

"  It  looks  it,"  said  one. 

"  I  find  it  is  an  enchanted  mirror ;  it  possesses 
magical  properties,  and  if  one  stood  here  at  just  the 
right  hour  she  would  see  crossing  its  dim  surface  the 
shades  of  all  the  dead  and  gone  revellers  this  old  room 
has  ever  known." 

"  Do  you  reckon,  if  a  fellow  should  come  up  here 
about  the  witching  hour  of  twelve  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon,  with  a  rabbit's  foot  in  each  hand  — " 

"Hush,  foolish  scoffer!  even  now  they  come  —  " 

"Well,  they  're  in  a  mighty  big  hurry.  You  tell  'em 
we  ain't  fixed  up  at  all  ;  that  we  are  sleeping  on  the 
floor,  and  —  " 

"  Behold,  a  great,  swarthy,  athletic  young  mountain 
eer,  tall  and  straight  as  his  native  pines  —  " 

"  Gee  whiz  !     Must  be  a  hundred  feet  high  !  " 

"  Don't  interrupt,  please ;  remember,  there  were 
giants  in  those  days.  They  quickly  pass.  But  what 
strange  figures  are  these  stealthily  gliding  through  the 
gray  shadows  ? " 

"  Injins,  I  '11  bet  you  !  Are  they  togged  up  in 
fringed  buckskin  and  moccasins,  with  a  lot  of  danglin' 
beads  and  feather  fixin's  ?  " 

"  Alas  !     Shocked   by  your   skepticism,  they  recede. 

Ah  !    they  are  gone  !  " 

29 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Good  !  Let  the  old  spooks  go  !  Say,  let 's  try  a 
waltz ;  this  old  floor  is  a  daisy."  And  then,  the  spirit 
of  folly  being  in  full  possession,  if  you  could  have 
looked  through  the  windows  of  this  old  garret,  you 
would  have  seen  four  elderly  figures  half  veiled  in  dust 
gliding  and  whirling  up  and  down  the  long  room, 
while  the  rain  rattled  like  hail  upon  the  shingles.  We 
thought  we  did  it  fairly  well,  with  the  exception,  as 
Tom  said,  of  "  breathin'  a  little  'ard,  like  the  young 
recruit  at  the  'angin'  of  Danny  Deever." 

"  Now  for  a  schottische,"  he  cried,  as  he  began 
whistling  "  Pop  Goes  the  Weasel." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  that 's  too  awfully  plebeian  !  " 

"  Plebeian  ?  That 's  just  where  you  're  wrong.  The 
'  shortish '  was  mighty  popular  in  airly  days." 

The  cuckoo  below,  just  then  chiming  out  the  noon 
hour,  nipped  this  discussion,  and  quickly  restored  our 
lost  sanity. 

"  Twelve  o'clock  !  "  said  Mary,  excitedly.  "  Who 
could  have  thought  we  had  idled  away  a  whole  hour  in 
this  idiotic  fashion  ?  I  truly  believe,  if  we  had  been 
caught  at  this  nonsense,  we  would  all  have  been  clapped 
into  strait-jackets  and  carted  off  to  the  madhouse!  " 

Tom  rushed  across  the  room  to  the  corner  of  odds  and 
ends,  and  hung  the  old  hat  on  the  top  of  a  hoe  handle, 
hurriedly  remarking,  "  Mr.  Milburn,  revered  though  in 
visible  shade,  I  return  your  valuable  inheritance,  thank 
ing  you  kindly  for  its  loan.  The  inaugural  ball  is  now 

3° 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

over.  Lights  will  be  turned  off  at  once.  Follow  me 
—  fly  !  "  And  he  dashed  through  the  Cave  of  the 
Winds,  and  dropped  into  the  hole  in  the  floor,  shout 
ing  back  through  the  darkness,  "  Shoot  the  chute  — 
everybody  !  " 

Prosaic  duties  were  awaiting  us  below.  The  men 
hurried  off  in  search  of  fuel, — just  then  one  of  our 
most  crying  needs.  We  busied  ourselves  with  prepara 
tions  for  cooking  our  first  dinner  by  a  fireplace.  Pota 
toes  were  buried  in  the  ashes,  and  then  covered  with  a 
nice  warm  blanket  of  coals.  Onions  were  given  the 
same  treatment,  after  being  partially  peeled  and 
wrapped  in  white  tissue-paper.  Fiery  coals  were  raked 
out  to  make  a  hot-box  for  the  teakettle.  A  row  of 
fine  apples  was  placed  on  the  hearth  at  proper  distance 
from  the  heat.  Then  the  perspiring  cooks  rushed  to 
the  door  for  air  and  to  cool  their  blistered  faces.  We 
agreed  that  cooking  by  an  open  fire  was  interesting  as 
a  new  experience,  but  that  in  time  it  might  pall  upon 
one.  In  a  surprisingly  short  time,  however,  the  apples 
turned  a  golden  brown,  plumped  up  and  burst  open, 
their  escaping  juices  bubbling  into  white  foam. 
"  Done  !  "  said  the  experts,  as  they  were  placed  in  a  dish 
and  given  a  liberal  powdering  of  sugar.  Then,  with 
well-bandaged  hand,  and  face  shielded  by  the  dustpan, 
one  of  the  brave  pioneers  volunteered  to  exhume  the 
potatoes.  They  were  found,  like  the  apples,  to  be 
roasted  to  the  Queen's  taste,  were  taken  by  the  assistant 

31 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

chef  and  carefully  folded  in  a  napkin,  while  the  red- 
eyed  explorer  probed  the  next  mound.  This  proved  to 
be  less  satisfactory ;  the  onions  were  yielding  but  slowly 
to  their  doom.  More  coals  were  added.  Thin  slices 
of  ham  were  laid  across  the  bars  of  the  wire  toaster  and 
broiled  beautifully,  coffee  was  made,  and  the  dry-goods 
box  given  a  real  table-cloth  in  honor  of  the  occasion. 
At  each  plate  was  a  spray  of  buckthorn,  —  a  lovely, 
dark,  waxen  leaf,  in  color  and  shape  like  holly. 

When  the  onions  did  give  in,  they  did  it  handsomely. 
Upon  removing  their  wrappers,  we  found  a  soft,  pulpy 
mass,  which,  when  seasoned  and  buttered,  was  delicious. 
The  gentlemen  pronounced  the  dinner  good  enough  to 
satisfy  the  most  epicurean  taste.  We  bowed  our  burn 
ing  heads  in  acknowledgment  of  the  compliment. 
We  could  n't  blush ;  our  crimson  faces  could  take  no 
deeper  tint. 

After  three  days  of  this  underground  cooking  we 
struck.  But  one  loaf  of  bread  remained,  and  we  were 
much  too  amateurish  to  attempt  bread-baking  over  the 
coals  or  under  them ;  so  we  said  decisively,  "  To-mor 
row  morning  that  range  goes  up  or  we  go  out." 


IV 

IF  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now,  as  you 
listen  to  a  tale  of  woe  rising  with  the  blue  mists  from 
the  fir-clad  hills  of  Oregon.  You  will  remember 
that  the  burned  and  blistered  cooks  of  the  fireplace  had 
rebelled  ;  that  the  edict  had  gone  forth  that  the  kitchen 
range  should  go  up  at  once,  as  but  one  loaf  of  bread 
remained  in  sight  —  and  now,  alas !  even  that  had 
vanished.  You  will  hardly  believe  that  "  Pandora " 
was  hidden  away  within  the  interior  of  that  innocent- 
looking  range!  The  very  instant  violent  hands  were 
laid  upon  it,  that  malignant  goddess  raised  the  lid  of 
her  direful  box,  and  such  a  swarm  of  undreamed-of 
troubles  buzzed  about  us  !  In  the  first  place,  the  stove 
had  been  left  by  the  teamsters  on  the  dining-room 
porch  instead  of  the  kitchen  porch.  It  was  impossible 
now  to  carry  it  through  the  former  room,  which  was 
packed  solidly  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  boxes  and 
crated  goods.  To  take  it  around  the  house,  on  a 
muddy,  slippery  hillside,  looked  an  impossibility. 

To  add  to  the  general  wretchedness  of  things,  the 
weather  had  changed  in  the  night ;  the  rain  had  turned 
to  sleet,  and  now  snow  was  falling,  freezing  as  it  fell. 
After  much  scheming  the  ponderous  stove  was  finally 

3  33 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

zigzagged  off  the  porch  and  placed  upon  wooden  rollers, 
immediately  sinking  fathoms  deep  in  mud.  In  spite 
of  all  lifting,  pushing,  and  prying,  it  sat  there  as  firmly 
fixed  as  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar.  A  new  propeller  was 
devised  ;  then,  after  wobbling  a  little,  it  lurched  forward 
a  foot  or  two.  Thinking  to  give  a  light  touch  to  the 
scene,  I  cried  joyously,  — 

"  She  starts,  she  moves,  she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel !  " 

Then  two  pairs  of  eyes  were  lifted,  from  which  flashed 
murder  in  the  first  degree.  It  seems  that  poetry  does  n't 
always  find  favor  with  the  sterner  sex.  By  pluck  and 
perseverance  the  monster  was  finally  located  where  it 
should  have  been  placed  when  taken  from  the  wagon. 
The  range  was  wide,  the  door  narrow.  That  the  one 
would  never  go  through  the  other,  Mary  and  I  both 
saw  at  a  glance,  —  a  knowledge  gained  by  the  men 
only  after  making  careful  measurements.  The  door  was 
taken  off  its  hinges.  More  measurements,  but  still  no 
go ;  now  the  door-frame  itself  must  be  taken  out,  — 
and  all  the  time  the  weather  was  growing  colder,  the 
sleet  thicker. 

"  Got  to  tear  the  whole  end  of  the  house  out," 
growled  Tom,  "  to  get  this  blasted  old  man-of-war  in 
here ;  I  always  said  that  it  was  a  fool  notion  to  bring 
it  !  ''  Of  course  he  was  the  one  who  insisted  upon 
bringing  it ;  but  I  have  learned  there  is  a  time  to  keep 

34 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

silence.  Can  you  believe  that  even  after  the  taking  out 
of  the  door-frame  that  stubborn  thing  would  n't  go  in  ? 
The  only  hope  left  was  in  the  removing  of  a  projecting 
plate,  strongly  riveted  with  bolts,  —  a  task  for  John  L. 
Sullivan.  But  Tom  was  mad  now  ;  "  his  strength  was  as 
the  strength  of  ten."  With  chisel  and  monkey-wrench 
he  bore  down  upon  the  offending  obstacle  and  literally 
tore  it  out  by  the  roots.  Lidless,  doorless,  and  backless, 
like  a  shorn  Samson,  the  stove  then  went  quietly 
enough  to  its  fate.  After  the  pipe  was  jointed  and 
poked  out  through  a  hole  in  the  roof  (there  being  no 
chimney),  it  became  apparent  that  some  one  must 
climb  up  there  and  wire  it  in  position,  —  a  dangerous 
undertaking,  the  roofs  of  Oregon  houses  being  as  steep 
as  toboggan  slides,  and  this  one  just  now  glazed 
with  sleet.  Bert  believed  he  could  do  the  trick  by 
nailing  wooden  cleats  for  each  advancing  step.  There 
being  no  ladder  on  the  premises,  a  table,  surmounted 
by  a  barrel,  was  placed  at  the  edge  of  the  porch.  The 
daring  adventurer,  armed  with  hatchet,  nails,  and  a 
coil  of  wire,  mounted  this  pedestal,  observing  that  he 
felt  quite  like  a  performing  elephant.  After  violent 
struggling  and  some  vigorous  boosting,  he  was  safely 
landed  on  the  porch  roof.  Crossing  it  gingerly,  he 
called  down,  "  Now  send  up  your  lumber,"  which 
went  up  with  the  caution,  — 

"  Nail   'em  on  firm,  old    chap ;    you  're   in   ticklish 
business."     It  certainly  was  "ticklish."     That   almost 

35 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

perpendicular  roof,  covered  with  sleet,  shone  like  a 
glacier.  We  begged  him  to  give  it  up  and  come 
down  ;  but  he  was  too  plucky  for  that,  as  was  testified 
by  the  grim  declaration,  "  We  build  the  ladder  by  which 
we  rise,"  as  with  much  hammering  of  nails  and  crack 
ling  of  ice  he  slowly  toiled  to  the  summit.  At  the 
extreme  end  of  the  building  stood  what  we  called  the 
"  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa."  How  he  was  to  cross  that 
long  stretch  of  roof,  we  couldn't  see.  This  problem 
he  immediately  solved  by  sitting  astride  the  comb  of 
the  roof  and  jumping  himself  along,  in  a  series  of 
kangaroo  leaps,  —  a  moving  spectacle,  as  seen  upon  the 
sharp  ridge  of  a  snowy  cliff;  that  dark,  distorted  figure, 
half  crawling,  half  leaping,  followed  by  the  funereal  folds 
of  a  trailing  Prince  Albert  coat. 

Tom,  unable  to  restrain  his  delight,  called  out,  with 
true  showman  eloquence :  "  The  greatest  free  open-air 
entertainment  ever  seen  upon  the  Pacific  Slope  !  Pro 
fessor  Clutch-'em-Tight,  the  world-renowned  bareback 
rider,  crossing  the  Alps  upon  his  famous  Iceland  steed, 
'  Razor-back/  which  never  until  this  hour  felt  the 
restraining  hand  of  man.  Fifty  cents  and  a  quarter  of 
a  dollar  admits  you  to  the  big  tent.  Hurry  up, 
everybody  ! " 

The  "  Professor,"  ignoring  this  harangue,  galloped 
solemnly  on  to  his  goal.  The  "  tower  "  being  then 
some  feet  below  him,  a  few  descending  steps  were 
made.  Standing  upon  this  icy  slope,  the  wiring  was 

36 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

done,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  ground-floor  as 
sistant,  who,  feeling  that  the  worst  of  the  work  was 
about  over,  and  himself  safe  on  terra  firjnay  was  now  in 
buoyant  spirits,  singing  in  tones  loud  enough  to  have 
been  heard  on  the  top  of  Mount  Hood,  — 

"  High  in  the  belfry  the  old  sexton  stands, 
Grasping  a  wire  in  his  thin  bony  hands." 

"  The  troubadour  is  most  flattering,  especially  as  to 
thin,  bony  hands ;  but  I  would  suggest  that  he  leave 
off  that  bellowing  and  go  inside  and  start  up  his  old 
furnace." 

"'I  do  make  all  convenient  haste,  my  lord,'"  he  called, 
as  he  came  bustling  into  the  kitchen.  "That  old  Santa 
Claus  on  the  roof,  in  the  heel-cracker  coat,  is  advising 
me  to  fire  up,"  he  said  to  us,  cramming  in  fuel  and 
striking  matches.  "  I  '11  have  this  thing  going  like  a 
house  afire  in  about  a  minute.  You  can  start  your 
biscuit  now ;  and,  say,  open  a  can  of  maple  syrup,  and 
we  '11  have  a  high  jinks  of  a  time." 

And  we  had  it  too  ;  for  no  sooner  was  the  fire  started 
than  smoke  began  pouring  out  from  every  crack  and 
crevice  of  that  stove,  even  from  the  front  draught.  It 
filled  the  house  and  rolled  in  billowy  masses  from  open 
doors  and  broken  windows.  We  were  sure  that  nothing 
like  it  had  been  seen  since  the  burning  of  Chicago. 
The  operator,  dumb  with  amazement,  was  dimly  seen 
through  the  haze  prancing  round  and  round  the  stove 

37 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

like  a  whirling  dervish,  opening  and  closing  draughts, 
slamming  doors  and  lids,  jamming  in  more  fuel  and 
striking  more  matches,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Each 
and  every  effort  ended  in  smoke.  Bert,  having  returned 
to  earth,  stood  gasping  in  the  door. 

"  I  thought  you  had  n't  fired  her ;  no  smoke  at  all 
above." 

"  You  did  n't  expect  this  blamed  old  sarcophagus  to 
smoke  at  both  ends,  did  you  ?  "  And  then  the  flood 
gates  of  wrath  opened.  His  listeners  will  never  again 
doubt  the  existence  of  the  emotional  Mr.  Bowser. 
There  was  absolutely  no  draught.  It  was  found  the  pro 
jecting  pipe  aloft  was  not  of  sufficient  height  ;  for  it 
must  be  substituted  one  of  those  tall  smokestacks,  and 
there  was  no  hope  of  fire  until  this  could  be  done.  This 
discovery  would  not  have  meant  much  in  the  old  home, 
where  the  desired  stack  could  have  been  ordered  from  a 
hardware  store  and  put  in  place  within  the  hour ;  but 
here  it  meant  a  drive  of  forty  miles  to  and  from  the 
little  town  we  had  left,  at  a  season  of  the  year  when 
roads  were  at  their  worst. 

It  was  decided  that  the  trip  should  be  made  the  fol 
lowing  day,  there  being  no  advantage  in  postponement, 
with  ravenous  appetites  calling  for  bread  where  no 
bread  could  be  had.  We  were  told  that  the  coming 
trip  was  the  only  one  that  would  be  made  until  the 
next  Spring,  and  were  advised  to  keep  that  fact  before 
us  in  the  making  up  of  our  memoranda,  —  a  mighty 

38 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

task  for  women  accustomed  to  the  ordering  of  daily 
supplies,  with  the  telephone  at  hand  to  rectify  errors  or 
omissions.  Our  entire  evening  was  devoted  to  this  work, 
and  I  am  proud  to  say  that  only  one  item  was  forgotten, 
but  that  the  important  one  of  eggs,  —  an  omission  which 
was  rued  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  for  weeks  to  come. 
When  the  four  long  lists  were  finished  and  folded,  the 
"  alarm  "  was  wound  and  set  at  four  o'clock,  whereupon 
a  universal  groan  was  heard.  Instantly  our  spirits  fell 
to  zero,  and  there  remained. 

Promptly  at  the  time  appointed,  that  clock  opened  up 
for  business.  I  think  it  must  have  awakened  every 
sleeper  between  the  two  oceans.  We  had  never  known 
it  to  work  so  vigorously.  Whether  Tom  had,  in  wind 
ing  it,  given  an  extra  turn  or  two,  or  something  vital 
had  given  way  inside,  will  probably  never  be  known. 
While  the  horses  were  being  fed  and  harnessed  by  the 
fitful  light  of  a  lantern,  our  third  breadless  meal  was 
prepared.  We  had  crackers,  fortunately,  and  "  before- 
daylight"  appetites  are  easily  satisfied. 

Our  wretched  pilgrims  had  been  long  on  their  way 
ere  the  dawn  climbed  over  our  green  hills.  The  day 
was  very  dark  and  cloudy.  Early  in  the  afternoon  rain 
began  falling.  By  six  o'clock  darkness  fell  like  a  pall 
upon  us,  —  no  moon,  no  stars,  no  ray  of  light.  Even 
then  we  began  listening  for  the  sound  of  wheels,  though 
we  had  been  told  not  to  expect  the  wanderers  before 
eight  o'clock.  We  put  lamps  in  the  windows,  drew  up 

39 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

the  blinds,  piled  high  with  logs  the  old  fireplace,  hoping 
the  illumination  might  make  a  little  path  of  radiance 
through  the  forest's  gloom.  For  us  this  was  an  uncanny 
experience.  Outside,  no  "  social  watchfires  "  gleamed 
from  neighborly  windows ;  in  fact,  there  were  no  win 
dows,  —  only  the  blackness  of  night.  Within  the  old 
house  were  two  lone,  listening  women.  From  the 
"  ball-room  "  above  came  a  flying  touch  of  phantom 
feet  and  a  faint  swish  of  ghostly  skirts,  as  plainly  heard 
as  the  scurrying  of  mice  among  the  packing-boxes. 
High  up  among  the  pines  a  lonely  night-bird  screamed  ; 
while  upon  the  window-sills  fell  the  steady  drip,  drip, 
drip  of  the  rain,  as  if  some  wandering  spirit  of  the  night 
were  rapping  out  for  us  a  message. 

Not  until  ten  o'clock  did  we  hear  the  welcome 
rumble  of  wheels  over  the  little  bridge  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  Then  came  a  loud  "  Whoo-whoo,"  a  sort  of 
mountain  call  we  have  learned  here.  How  quickly  we 
flew  to  the  door  and  gave  an  answering  call,  all  our  fears 
forgotten  !  As  that  wagon-load  of  merchandise  had 
to  be  carried  in,  it  was  midnight  before  we  sat  at  supper, 
listening  to  a  detailed  account  of  the  vexations  and  mis 
haps  of  the  day.  About  dusk  the  travellers  had  found 
themselves  "  stuck  fast  in  the  mud,"  working  vainly  a 
whole  hour  with  rails  and  poles  to  lift  those  wheels  out 
of  a  bog.  Fortunately  a  Good  Samaritan  came  along 
with  a  team  of  big  Clydesdale  horses,  which  he  hitched 

to  the  wagon,  yanking  it  out  in  a  jiffy.     Tom  said  he 

4o 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

could  have  fallen  upon  the  big  necks  of  the  horses  and 
blubbered  for  joy.  Just  then  night  swooped  down  ;  and 
from  that  time  until  they  reached  home,  one  had  to 
walk  in  advance  with  the  lantern. 

Thus  endeth  the  story  of  the  putting  up  of  a  kitchen 
range  in  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs. 

P.  S.  Among  the  merchandise  were  found  five 
kinds  of  bread. 


V 


1HAVE  been  thinking,  dear  Nell,  that  my  letters 
have  shown  you  only  the  sombre  side  of  our  ranch 
life.  When  you  think  of  us  in  our  new  Oregon 
home,  you  probably  imagine  a  dreary,  grim  old  house, 
perched  high  on  a  hillside ;  only  that,  and  nothing 
more.  You  know  nothing  of  the  beauty  of  our  sur 
roundings,  nothing  of  the  semicircle  of  towering  hills 
clad  from  base  to  summit  with  the  living  green  of  fir 
trees,  seen  from  our  front  windows  and  separated  from 
us  by  only  a  very  narrow  glen,  —  the  latter  as  green  and 
fresh  in  January  as  are  our  lawns  at  home  in  May. 
Curving  and  winding  through  this  little  valley,  with  a 
tracery  of  green  trees  and  leafless  ones,  is  the  loveliest 
mountain  stream  that  ever  the  sun  shone  on,  —  in 
summer-time  a  dreamily  murmuring  rivulet ;  in  winter 
a  rushing,  roaring  torrent.  Then  it  comes  rollicking 
and  roystering  through  our  little  glen,  like  some  mad 
bacchanalian  half  crazed  by  mountain  vintage,  plunging 
over  rocky  terraces,  leaping  mossy  logs,  whisking 
around  curves,  surging  and  eddying  against  ferny 
banks,  clutching  in  its  white  arms  dead  limbs  and 

branches,  held  one  instant,  hurled  broadcast  the  next,  as 

42 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

vaulting  over  them  with  a  tossing  of  green  billows  and 
flying  spray  it  reels  stormily  on,  bent  upon  still  madder 
pranks.  You  may  call  this  ranting,  and  perhaps  think 
it  inspired  by  this  same  mountain  vintage ;  but  you  have 
never  seen  the  mountain  streams  of  Oregon.  Ours 
seemed  so  wild  and  elfish  that  we  immediately  chris 
tened  it  "  Deer  Leap."  When  we  came  here,  a  high, 
strong  bridge  spanned  it.  In  one  of  these  recent  night 
carousals  that  bridge  was  lifted  bodily  and  borne 
away,  and  no  plank  of  it  was  ever  seen  again.  One 
day  last  winter,  after  heavy  rains,  Deer  Leap  was  tear 
ing  and  plunging  down  from  the  hills,  floating  a  mighty 
drift  of  logs,  stumps,  boards,  and  such  debris,  when, 
seeing  Mary  and  me  watching  from  the  bank,  in  sud 
den  fury  he  hurled  the  whole  mass  at  us,  and  there  it 
remains  to  this  day. 

In  summer-time,  when  canopied  by  green  leaves  and 
swinging  vines,  with  birds  singing  glad  hallelujahs 
above  it,  and  the  elusive  speckled  trout  darting  through 
it,  then  indeed  is  our  brook  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy 
forever.  However,  it  is  but  one  of  the  many  charms 
of  this  old  place.  We  have  lovely  springs  of  pure  soft 
water.  One  of  these,  high  upon  the  hill  back  of  the 
house,  gushing  from  a  rocky  ledge  beneath  a  clump  of 
pines,  comes  tumbling  down  in  a  mossy  fern-shaded  rill, 
to  slip  beneath  the  shadows  of  a  near-by  alder  and  creep 
into  an  ugly  wooden  spout,  and  thence  be  carried  to  a  still 
uglier  wooden  trough  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen  porch. 

43 


LETTERS   FROM   AN   OREGON    RANCH 

Upon  our  arrival  here,  a  well-mannered  stream  of  water 
about  two  inches  in  diameter  was  flowing  from  this 
spout  ;  but  one  morning  after  the  rains  I  heard  Tom 
exclaim,  as  he  stepped  out  on  the  porch,  "  Great  Scott ! 
is  n't  this  getting  a  little  bit  too  gay  ?  "  I  looked  out, 
and,  lo  !  a  stream  of  water  as  thick  as  the  stove-pipe  was 
gushing  from  that  spout  and  dashing  half-way  across 
the  porch.  Tom  had  to  construct  a  sort  of  breakwater 
of  boards  in  front  of  it,  in  doing  which  he  was  half 
drowned,  shouting  at  me  through  the  roar  of  the  breakers, 
"  Life  may  seem  extinct,  but  don't  give  up  till  you  've 
rolled  me  over  a  barrel."  Not  being  familiar  with 
the  habits  of  mountain  springs,  this  "  rampage "  sur 
prised  us;  but  we  afterwards  learned  that  they  are  as 
much  given  to  "  rampagin'  "  as  was  Mrs.  Joe  Gargery 
herself. 

Lower  down  the  hill,  at  one  side  of  the  front  lawn, 
under  a  giant  alder,  another  spring  pours  from  the 
cavern-like  side  of  a  big  rock,  and  goes  dancing  away 
over  a  stony  path  to  lose  itself  in  the  green  pasture- 
lands  below.  Upon  the  massive  rock  overhanging  this 
spring  we  might  have  carved,  — 

"  The  mountain  air 
In  winter  is  not  clearer,  nor  the  dew 
That  shines  on  mountain  blossoms." 

The  water  of  this  spring  is  most  delicious,  icy-cold 
and  pure  •  "  the  more  you  drink,  the  more  you  want." 

44 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Here  too  are  growing  wonderful  ferns,  —  long  feathery 
fronds,  just  such  as  we  buy  of  the  florists  at  home,  who 
call  them  "  Boston  ferns."  Here  they  are  found  grow 
ing  wild,  three  or  four  feet  high ;  a  reckless  profusion 
of  them  in  all  moist  shady  places.  Think  of  this,  and 
groan,  the  next  time  you  pay  a  dollar  for  a  little  stingy 
one  six  inches  high  !  The  moss  about  this  spring  is 
exquisite,  as  if  woven  by  fairy  fingers,  of  tiny  velvety 
ferns.  In  fact,  the  Oregon  moss  is  wonderful;  it  covers 
trees,  stumps,  rocks,  fences,  and  even  the  roofs  of  houses. 
Tom  says  the  moss  business  is  overdone  here;  but  I 
like  it. 

At  one  side  of  the  lawn  is  a  large  orchard,  bearing 
fine  apples,  pears,  peaches,  plums,  prunes,  and  cherries  ; 
and  winding  through  this  bower  of  lusciousness  is  a 
little  path  leading  to  the  garden,  —  a  pretty  place,  all 
embowered  by  trees,  giving  it  that  touch  of  seclusion 
so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  gardener.  Just  above  the 
garden  is  another  spring,  hidden  away  in  a  tangle  of 
greenery.  Back  of  the  house  is  a  precipitous  hill, 
crowned  with  fir,  laurel,  and  young  oak  trees,  the  latter 
draped  with  pendent  fringes  of  silvery  moss,  in  fine 
contrast  with  the  green  of  the  firs ;  while  straggling 
down  toward  the  house  are  trees  of  various  kinds, 
clumps  of  bushes,  and  tall  brown  ferns,  with  a  perfect 
network  of  dewberry  vines  covering  the  ground  and 
forming  a  snare  for  the  foot  of  the  unwary.  Here  too 
is  fine  old  oak  with  mistletoe  growing  in  its  branches. 

45 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Oh,  the  joy  of  having  that  lovely  mistletoe  growing 
right  in  one's  own  dooryard ! 

"  The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall, 
The  holly  branch  shone  on  the  old  oak  wall ! " 

We  shall  use  buckthorn  for  holly,  and  when  the  blessed 
Yuletide  comes  round,  this  old  rancho  shall  blossom 
as  the  rose. 

Across  the  rear  of  the  yard,  half-way  up  the  hill 
side,  are  the  remains  of  an  old  fence,  which  we  shall 
remove,  except  one  portion  of  it,  which  is  formed  by  a 
fallen  log.  This  must  have  been  one  of  the  monarchs 
of  the  forest.  It  is  seventy-five  feet  long,  and  so  thick 
that  when  Tom  stands  on  one  side  of  it  and  I  on  the 
other,  we  are  not  visible  to  each  other.  In  winter  it 
is  a  mossy,  lifeless  thing ;  but  in  summer  vines  clamber 
over  it,  running  along  the  top  and  festooning  its  sides ; 
chattering  squirrels  play  over  it,  and  tuneful  birds  meet 
there  for  choir  rehearsals.  Our  woodland  is  truly  a 
"  forest  primeval,"  as  wild  as  an  African  jungle.  From 
a  hilltop  beyond  Deer  Leap,  when  the  skies  are  clear, 
we  can  plainly  see  Mount  Jefferson,  Mount  Hood,  and 
the  Three  Sisters,  yes,  and  Mary's  Peak.  Why  it  is 
called  that  I  don't  know,  when  it  has  its  pretty  Indian 
name,  "  Chintimini." 

I  have  now  indifferently  sketched  for  you,  dear  Nell, 
a  few  of  the  more  pronounced  attractions  of  this  old 

place  ;  but,  believe  me,  it  has  hundreds  of  minor  though 

46 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

no  less  witching  ones.  Nature  in  making  this  mountain 
region  dealt  out  grandeur  and  beauty  with  a  lavish 
hand.  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  man's  work,  for  surely 
here  are  the  ugliest  buildings  that  ever  blotted  and 
disfigured  a  landscape.  Rickety,  weather-beaten,  and 
boarded  up  and  down,  they  are  so  irredeemably  ugly 
that  one  longs  to  sweep  them  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 
There  are  two  buildings,  however,  made  of  logs,  that  I 
would  spare,  as  they  seem  to  fit  in  with  their  rugged 
surroundings.  One  is  a  big,  wide,  roomy  barn ;  the 
other  a  "  root-house.'*  I  had  never  seen  or  heard  of 
such  a  thing  before,  and  inquiring  of  the  lord  of  the 
manor  what  it  was  for,  I  was  told  that  "  it  was  a  place 
to  root  in  when  you  feel  like  it," — an  evasive  reply, 
which  proved  to  me  that  he  knew  no  more  about  it 
than  I  did.  This  building,  hidden  by  climbing  vines 
and  green  moss,  is  picturesque  as  an  old  ruin  ;  only  it  is 
no  ruin,  —  it  is  good  for  a  century  yet. 

The  fences  on  the  place  are  of  rails,  which  would  be 
all  right  and  appropriate  if  only  they  were  good  rails ; 
but,  alas !  the  storms  and  stress  of  the  seasons  have 
borne  so  heavily  upon  them  that  they  have  mostly 
given  up  trying  to  be  fences,  and  have  lain  down  in 
discouraged  and  straggling  heaps  along  the  boundary 
lines.  We  are  told  that  this  ranch  was  well  kept  up 
by  its  former  owners  when  they  were  living  here,  but 
since  then  has  been  sadly  misused  and  abused  by  tenants. 
It  now,  I  fancy,  resembles  the  "abandoned  farms"  of  the 

47 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

East.  At  first  these  unsightly  things  worried  us ;  but 
soon  there  came  to  us  a  reproving  voice  from  the  ever 
lasting  hills,  saying,  "  Oh,  you  poor  anxious  atoms 
away  down  there  in  the  glen,  fretting  your  small  souls 
because  of  an  inartistic  cowshed,  forgetting  God's  beauty 
all  around  and  above  you.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ? " 
We  were  ashamed,  and  these  things  at  least  are  no 
longer  "  a  speck  in  our  sunshine." 

Many  of  our  Eastern  friends  have  written  us  that  the 
Oregon  rains  must  be  terrible,  the  many  gray  days 
pressing  heavily  upon  us  poor  mortals  cooped  up  in 
our  little  mountain  home.  But  this  sympathy  is  not 
altogether  called  for.  In  the  first  place,  the  rains  here 
don't  come  with  a  wind  that  wraps  your  skirts  about  you 
like  a  winding-sheet  and  turns  your  umbrella  inside  out. 
They  fall  straight  down  from  the  heavens,  in  a  decent, 
unhurrying  way.  Having  six  months  to  do  it  in,  there 
is  no  occasion  for  haste  or  bluster.  As  to  wet  days 
being  depressing  here,  they  are  not  half  so  much  so  as 
in  a  city  where  one  sees  only  wet  muddy  pavements  and 
a  black  sea  of  bobbing  umbrellas.  Now,  as  this  hap 
pens  to  be  a  rainy  day,  let  me  describe  it  to  you.  In 
the  old  stone  fireplace  pitchy  pine  knots  are  blazing 
like  campaign  torches,  filling  the  big  room  with  a 
ruddy  glow.  Outside  are  gray  skies,  falling  rain,  and 
sodden  earth  ;  but  from  a  window  here  by  my  desk,  I 
see  the  wet  leaves  of  the  orchard  trees  ablaze  with 

color,  and  through  this  vista,  just  below,  an  old  fence 

48 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

overgrown  with  blackberry  and  wild  rose-bushes ;  be 
yond  it,  a  narrow  strip  of  gray  stubble  land,  splotched 
with  the  brown  of  dead  ferns  and  weeds ;  skirting  its 
farthest  side  is  the  fringing  foliage  of  the  brook,  a  mass 
of  tender  green,  yellow,  and  russet ;  and  back  of  all 
this,  the  mighty  hills,  an  unbroken  wall  of  dark  green, 
splashed  with  the  scarlet  and  gold  of  autumn,  and  just 
now  enmeshed  in  purple  mists. 

While  writing  the  last  sentence  or  two,  Nature's 
scene-shifter  must  have  been  busy ;  for  now,  as  I  look, 
a  thin  gauzy  veil  of  mist  stretches  straight  across  these 
heights.  Through  this  shadowy  screen  the  hills  seem 
remote,  the  trees  vague  and  spectral ;  the  vivid  hues  of 
autumn  have  faded  to  the  late  afterglow  of  a  summer 
sunset.  These  hills  are  my  joy  and  my  despair.  I 
could  cry  with  vexation  when  I  try  to  picture  them  to 
others.  Such  fleeting  and  changeful  beauty  should  be 
sketched  only  by  the  hand  of  a  master.  I  knew  this 
all  the  time,  but  fools,  you  know,  rush  in  where  angels 
fear  to  tread,  and  I  did  so  want  to  show  you  something 
of  this  out-door  beauty,  that  you  might  at  least  par 
tially  understand  why  we  are  not  depressed  in  gloomy 
weather. 

As  to  being  "  cooped  up  "  in  this  little  mountain 
place,  I  should  think  we  were  rather  less  cramped  for 
room  than  those  friends  who  write  us  from  city  houses 
and  "  flats."  We  have  our  own  broad  domains,  besides 
free  range  of  the  whole  of  the  Coast  Mountains,  for  here 

4  49 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

are  no  "  no  trespassing  "  signs  for  the  unarmed  intruder. 
Here,  too,  we  are  free  from  "  the  tyranny  of  clothes." 
If  one  feels  a  sudden  longing  for  a  walk  in  the  fresh 
air,  no  careful  street  toilet  need  be  made  in  fear  of 
critical  eyes,  as  in  a  city,  where,  Thoreau  says,  "  the 
houses  are  so  arranged,  in  lanes  and  fronting  one 
another,  that  every  traveller  has  to  run  the  gauntlet, 
and  every  man,  woman,  and  child  gets  a  lick  at  him." 
Here,  with  rubber  overshoes  added  to  the  in-door  toilet 
and  a  shawl  thrown  over  the  head,  one  is  equipped  for 
the  woods  and  fields,  no  eye  beholding  save  those  of 
the  beasts  of  the  fields  and  the  fowls  of  the  air;  and 
their  eyes  are  kind,  not  critical.  One  year  of  this 
free  life  in  the  Oregon  hills,  untrammelled  by  con 
ventionalities,  is  better  than  "fifty  years  of  Europe," 
and  when  I  leave  these  glorious  solitudes  it  will  be  to 
enter  "  that  low  green  tent  whose  curtain  never  out 
ward  swings." 


VI 


IN  my  last  letter,  Nell,  I  tried  to  picture  to  you 
some  of  the  beauties  surrounding  our  new  Oregon 
home ;  but  I  do  assure  you  that  it  was  only  the 
preface  to  this  wonderful  Nature-book  of  the  hills.  I 
would  like  to  tell  you  more  of  them  ;  but  as  man  can 
not  live  by  scenery  alone,  and  as  you  particularly  want 
details  of  our  early  experiences  here,  not  only  the 
lights  but  the  shadows,  I  shall  have  to  go  back  again  to 
those  memorable  days  of  January  when  we  first  came 
here.  Green  fir  seen  upon  the  hills  is  admirable  ;  but 
green  fir  in  the  kitchen  range  is  abominable,  especially 
after  being  soaked  by  rain  for  three  months.  When 
first  put  into  the  stove,  bolstered  up  with  plenty  of  pine 
kindlings,  it  would  blaze  rather  hopefully,  until  the  moss 
had  burned  off  and  the  kindlings  had  vanished,  when 
with  sighing  and  sobbing  it  would  shed  a  few  rainy 
tears,  turn  black,  and  all  would  be  over.  The  most  of 
our  packing-boxes  were  demolished  in  efforts  to  set  the 
fir  wood  on  fire,  but  all  in  vain  ;  it  simply  would  not 
burn,  and  we  had  to  go  back  to  cooking  by  the  fireplace. 
There  we  did  fairly  well,  with  a  liberal  supply  of  bark ; 
the  latter  burning  well  here,  but  of  no  use  in  the  range. 

51 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

While  in  this  slough  of  despond,  a  man  came  one  day 
to  hang  wall-paper  for  us.  Hearing  our  lamentations, 
he  suggested  drying  the  wood  in  the  oven  before  using 
it.  Long  may  that  man  live  and  prosper  !  The  curing 
process  helped  wonderfully,  —  only  now  the  wood  was 
too  combustible ;  it  burned  out  in  a  jiffy.  We  would 
fill  the  stove  full,  leave  it  fifteen  minutes,  come  back  to 
it,  and  not  a  vestige  of  fire  would  be  left.  We  soon 
learned  that  the  stove  must  never  be  left  alone ;  one 
must  stand  there,  with  hand  on  the  throttle,  like  the 
engineer  of  a  locomotive. 

The  demand  for  fuel  was  always  greater  than  the 
supply,  though  the  oven  was  kept  filled  with  it  from 
January  to  May,  except  on  baking  days.  Sometimes 
we  would  close  the  oven  door,  forgetting  it  until  re 
minded  by  a  great  crackling,  when,  flinging  the  door 
open,  flames  would  rush  out  in  our  faces,  and  every 
stick  of  the  fuel  would  be  found  ablaze.  I  wonder  we 
did  n't  blow  the  stove  up  and  burn  the  house  down  ! 
Though  we  did  n't  know  enough  to  bake  our  wood 
without  being  told,  we  found  out  one  thing  for  our 
selves,  and  that  was  that  when  the  wood  was  heated  a 
pitch  oozed  from  it  that  stuck  to  the  fingers  and 
burned  like  hot  sealing-wax.  Even  after  learning  this 
fact,  we  kept  forgetting  it,  and  hurriedly  reaching  into 
the  oven  to  seize  a  stick,  we  would  shriek  and  dance 
around  like  Sioux  Indians.  All  winter  long  our  hands 
were  blistered  and  seared.  Once  on  the  hand,  the  stuff 

52 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

stuck  like  a  fiery  adhesive  plaster,  and  not  all  the  waters 
of  "  great  Neptune's  ocean  "  could  wash  it  off. 

Again  our  man  of  experience  came  to  the  rescue, 
telling  us  first  to  soak  our  hands  in  kerosene  and  then 
wash  them,  —  a  helpful  though  not  fragrant  remedy. 
We  learned  other  things  from  our  new  guide,  philoso 
pher,  and  friend :  first,  that  the  wood  we  were  using 
was  "  dozy "  (we  had  ourselves  observed  that  it  was 
somnolently  inclined)  ;  secondly,  that  if  our  "  men 
folks  "  would  cut  or  saw  down  a  big  tree,  we  would 
find  that  the  heart  of  it  would  make  a  roaring  fire. 
Now,  we  had  suspicions  that  neither  of  our  "men  folks" 
had  ever  felled  a  tree,  which  suspicions  were  strength 
ened  by  their  great  activity  in  collecting  bark,  fallen 
limbs,  and  other  woodland  debris,  and  palming  it  off 
on  us  as  something  rather  choice ;  but  Mary  and  I, 
pining  for  the  heart  of  that  big  tree,  harped  so  long 
about  it  that  at  last  the  fagot-gatherers  were  spurred  to 
action.  At  least  we  judged  something  was  about  to 
happen  from  a  conversation  in  the  woodhouse,  over 
heard  by  us,  which  ran  somewhat  as  follows :  — 
"  Ever  file  one  ?  " 
"  No;  did  you?" 

"  No.     What  the  dickens  shall  we  do  ? " 
"  Do?     We  '11  just  file  her,  that 's  what." 
Whereupon  began  terrible  rasping,  grating,  screech 
ing  noises,  which  continued  until  the  perpetrators  were 
summoned  to  dinner.     During  the  meal  we  were  told 

53 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

they  had  been  filing  a  saw.      Though  painfully  aware 
of  the  fact,  Mary  innocently  exclaimed,  — 

"Filing  a  saw!  I  didn't  suppose  either  of  you 
knew  how." 

"Know  how  to  file  a  saw! "  exclaimed  Bert.  "  Why, 
I  've  filed  'em,  I  may  say,  from  infancy  up." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  his  shameless  associate,  "  and  if  I 
had  a  dollar  for  every  one  I  've  filed,  I  'd  ask  nothing 
of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan."  Scornful  silence  on  the  part 
of  their  auditors. 

Soon  after  dinner  there  came  a  rapping  at  the  kitchen 
door,  and  there  we  found  the  unblushing  prevaricators, 
on  their  shoulders  a  saw  about  four  yards  long,  one 
carrying  an  axe,  the  other  an  old  tin  pail  half  full  of 
iron  wedges. 

"  Whither  away  ? "  was  asked. 

"  We  are  going,  ladies,  to  hold  '  communion  with 
Nature  in  her  visible  forms/  ' 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  we  are  going  to  draw  near  to  Nature's 
heart,  as  it  were,  and  rive  out  a  chunk  of  it  to  satisfy 
your  insatiate  cravings." 

We  were  then  told  that  if  we  would  glance  up  Mount 
Nebo  about  twilight  we  would  behold  a  novel  and 
interesting  scene. 

"  Suppose  neither  of  you  ever  happened  to  see  a  tree 
snaked  out  of  the  woods,  did  you  ? " 

"  I  've  seen  'em  from  infancy  up  !  ' 

54 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"Yes,  and  if  I  had  a  dollar  for  —  "  But  our  hearers 
had  gone  to  rejoin  the  horses,  which  stood  near,  literally 
wreathed  in  log  chains. 

The  cavalcade  had  not  long  been  gone,  before  the 
rain  poured  down  as  if  the  bottom  had  dropped  out  of 
the  water-tanks  above.  We  pitied  our  men  folks 
then,  and  their  poor  horses  too,  through  that  long 
afternoon.  Sure  enough,  about  dark,  "  silently  down 
from  the  mountain's  crown  a  great  procession  swept," 
but,  look  as  we  might,  we  could  see  nothing  being 
"  snaked." 

Passing  the  house,  those  misguided  men  looked  so 
miserably  wet  and  bedraggled  that  we  considerately 
refrained  from  commenting  on  "  the  novel  and  inter 
esting  scene." 

After  supper,  when  the  inner  man  had  been  refreshed 
and  the  outer  one  was  basking  in  the  genial  heat  of  an 
open  fire,  the  story  all  came  out.  It  seems  they  had 
found  a  fine  tree  six  feet  through,  and  thinking  they 
might  as  well  "  git  a-plenty  while  they  were  gittin'," 
they  had  tackled  it.  "Good!  Saw  it  down,  saw  it 
down !  "  But  they  never  got  half  way  through  the 
bark,  because,  as  Bert  explained,  "  Every  time  I  pulled 
on  the  saw  Tom  pulled  against  me." 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Tom,  "  and  what  did  you  do  when 
I  pulled?" 

"  Well,  old  man,  I  said  to  myself,  '  You  don't  get  the 
better  of  me/  so  I  just  braced  my  feet  and  pulled  too." 

55 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  If  you  two  men  ought  n't  to  be  in  an  asylum  for 
the  feeble-minded  !  The  idea  of  standing  in  a  drenching 
rain  this  whole  afternoon,  trying  to  pull  a  saw  away 
from  each  other  !  " 

"  But,  Mary,  we  did  n't  pull  the  saw  all  the  after 
noon  ;  when  we  found  we  had  struck  a  lignum  vita?  in 
stead  of  a  fir  tree,  we  gave  it  up.  But  we  Jve  got  you 
some  dandy  wood ;  we  will  bring  it  down  in  the 
morning." 

"  Snake  it  down  ? " 

"  I  hardly  know,  —  what  do  you  think,  Bert?'3 

"  Better  not,"  said  that  gentleman,  frowning  thought 
fully.  "  Your  team  is  just  a  little  bit  too  light." 

The  next  morning  I  saw  them  unloading  their  pre 
cious  fuel,  —  a  preponderance  of  bark,  and  a  few  small 
mossy  poles,  about  such  as  one  uses  to  support  aspiring 
Lima  beans.  I  called  Mary  to  come  and  see  the 
"dandy  wood." 

"  It's  just  what  I  expected,"  she  cried  indignantly. 
"  Snake  it  down !  I  guess  not,  unless  they  had  poked 
those  little  sticks  through  the  links  of  the  chain." 

"  But,  Mary,  they  could  have  bunched  them  like 
cheese-straws,  you  know." 

Then  we  got  to  laughing,  and  fancying  all  sorts  of 
nonsensical  things. 

"  Would  n't  these  mossy  little  twigs  be  lovely  standing 
about  the  room  in  vases,  burning  like  those  Chinese 
incense  tapers  ? ' 

56 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Yes  ;  or,  cut  in  short  lengths  and  tied  with  baby 
ribbon,  they  would  make  stunning  favors  for  a  green 
luncheon/* 

"  And  nothing  could  be  better  if  we  were  going  to 
banquet  the  Modern  Woodmen." 

In  the  fun  of  conjuring  up  ludicrous  uses  for  our 
new  wood,  we  quite  forgot  that  it  was  not  the  most 
desirable  for  fuel.  There  is  nothing  like  a  good  laugh 
to  float  one  over  difficult  places. 

Well,  we  never  got  our  big  tree  until  summer. 
Then  the  men  were  told  by  a  wise  Nestor  of  the 
hills  that  by  boring  holes  in  these  large  trees  and  firing 
them  from  the  inside,  they  could  soon  burn  them  down. 
They  eagerly  pounced  upon  that  idea,  and  since  then  we 
have  had  excellent  wood. 

Our  souls  were  tried  not  only  by  fire,  but  by  flour. 
Not  that  the  flour  was  poor,  for  we  ate  good  bread 
made  of  the  same  kind  in  the  little  town  where  we 
stopped  when  we  first  arrived.  But  the  women  there 
assured  us  that  we  would  have  much  trouble  with  it 
until  we  learned  how  to  handle  it ;  and  they  were 
right.  This  flour  was  made  from  what  is  here  called 
"  soft  wheat."  Put  it  on  the  kneading-board,  and  it 
would  spread  over  it  like  batter  on  a  griddle  and  stick 
there  like  glue.  Try  to  remedy  this  by  adding  flour 
to  make  a  stifFer  dough,  and  it  would  crack  open 
while  baking  and  come  out  of  the  oven  as  hard  as  a 
baseball.  As  to  cutting  it,  you  could  as  easily  slice  a  slab 

57 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

of  wood.  No,  it  must  be  mixed  soft,  and  must  not  lie 
motionless  an  instant  on  the  board,  or  it  had  to  be 
scraped  up  with  a  knife.  We  remembered  hearing  that 
Boston  bakers  pound  the  board  with  the  dough,  instead 
of  kneading  it,  and  this  method  we  adopted,  though 
it  required  the  alertness  and  dexterity  of  an  East  India 
juggler.  We  would  clutch  the  mass,  raise  it  high 
toward  heaven  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  dash 
flour  on  the  board,  then  bring  down  the  dough,  swift  as 
lightning  snatch  it  up  again,  dash  on  more  flour, 
whack  it  down  again,  and  so  continue  to  the  bitter  end. 
I  tell  you,  Nell,  when  bread  was  mixed  in  the  Ranch 
of  the  Pointed  Firs  the  china  rattled  and  the  earth 
trembled. 

Mixing  was  not  the  only  trouble;  the  bread  wouldn't 
rise  after  it  was  mixed,  though  swathed  and  swaddled  in 
wrappings  until  it  assumed  such  proportions  that  we 
had  to  call  upon  the  men  to  carry  it  to  the  fireplace, 
where  it  much  resembled  an  enormous  hassock  cosily 
placed  in  expectation  of  a  call  from  some  Brobding- 
nagian  of  the  hills.  When  the  time  came  to  make  it 
into  loaves,  one  would  naturally  expect  to  find  some 
slight  recognition  of  these  warm  attentions  ;  but  no,  — 
there  it  was,  as  inert  and  unresponsive  as  a  mixture  of 
Portland  cement  or  putty ;  and  when  baked  it  had  a 
crust  as  thick  as  fir  bark  and  as  hard. 

One  day  while  moulding  it  into  loaves,  I  thought, 
"  I  '11  just  use  some  of  this  for  biscuit,  and  give  this 

58 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

family  a  surprise"  ;  and  I  did.  First,  the  loaves  were 
baked,  and  put  out  on  the  table,  where  they  looked  as  if 
they  had  just  been  exhumed  from  the  ovens  of  Pompeii. 
Then,  with  beating  heart,  I  placed  my  great  venture 
in  the  oven.  After  twenty  minutes  of  thrilling  sus 
pense  the  door  was  cautiously  opened.  The  loaves 
seemed  dried  instead  of  baked,  and  were  about  half 
their  original  size.  Just  as  I  was  debating  in  my  mind 
whether  it  would  not  be  nobler  to  burn  them  and  thus 
end  all,  the  men  came  in  and  Tom's  eye  was  arrested 
by  my  layout.  "  Hello  !  Look  at  Katharine's  geologi 
cal  exhibit, — four  big  round  boulders;  and  what  might 
these  little  jokers  be  ?  Geodes  ?  No,  they  can't  be 
geodes  ;  not  the  right  color.  What  would  you  call  them, 
Bert  ?  " 

Scrutinizing  them  carefully,  Bert  thought  they 
"might  be  a  sort  of  ammunition." 

"  Not  shells,"  said  Tom,  hitting  them  a  resounding 
whack  with  a  carving-knife  ;  "  they  're  too  solid,  and 
there  is  no  fuse  to  'em.  Might  be  paper-weights." 

Wiping  tears  from  my  eyes  with  my  pitchy  fingers, 
hermetically  sealing  one,  I  looked  up  with  the  other 
and  said,  — 

"  *  You  are  pleased  to  be  merry,  gentlemen.' ' 

"  Come,  Bert,  we  've  got  to  fly.  When  Katharine 
begins  to  talk  like  Shakespeare,  she's  mad;  but  I'll  just 
take  one  of  these  things  out  to  the  woodhouse  and  bust 
it  open  and  see  if  I  can  find  out  what  it 's  made  of." 

59 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

We  wrestled  with  this  flour  for  six  long  months. 
While  the  bread  improved  some,  it  was  never  good. 
One  day  the  groceryman  gave  Tom  a  different  kind 
of  flour,  saying  he  had  ordered  it  specially  for  "  new 
comers,"  as  they  all  complained  of  the  other.  When 
I  learned  that  this  too  was  Oregon  flour,  I  had  small 
hope  of  it ;  but,  to  my  surprise,  it  made  light,  soft,  tender 
bread,  which  was  eaten  with  praise  and  thanksgiving. 


60 


VII 

DID  you  ever  try,  dear  Nell,  to  conduct  culinary 
operations  without  either  milk  or  eggs  ?  We 
had  five  weeks  of  this  experience,  while  wrestling 
with  the  problems  of  fuel  and  flour  of  which  you  have 
been  told.  Our  nearest  neighbors  lived  a  mile  away, 
and,  besides,  they  had  no  milk  to  spare ;  consequently 
"  after-dinner  "  coffee  was  in  vogue  here  at  every  meal. 
The  hill  hens  had  suspended  business  for  the  winter, 
and,  having  forgotten  to  order  eggs  when  that  last  trip 
to  market  was  made,  we  had  now  to  suffer  the  penalty. 
Having  neither  milk  nor  eggs,  our  cuisine  showed  a 
painful  dearth  of  such  delicacies  as  custards,  omelets, 
puddings,  etc.  This  we  could  have  borne  without 
complaint ;  but  as  nearly  all  vegetables,  to  be  palatable, 
require  either  milk  or  cream,  the  lack  of  these  articles 
was  a  real  hardship.  Then,  too,  being  so  far  from  the 
markets,  we  could  get  no  fresh  meats.  We  had  smoked 
ham  and  breakfast  bacon,  —  only  these  and  nothing 
more.  The  first,  unaccompanied  by  eggs,  we  soon 
tired  of,  especially  as  it  happened  to  be  salt  as  brine, 
tough,  and  hard ;  the  bacon  was  good  enough,  but  I 
defy  any  one  to  face  it  three  times  a  day  for  five  weeks 

and  not  loathe  it.     But   few  vegetables  were  brought 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

out  to  the  ranch,  the  wagons  being  so  heavily  loaded  with 
other  things.  We  supposed  they  could  be  bought  in  the 
neighborhood ;  but  here  again  we  were  disappointed. 

The  farmers  had  disposed  of  their  surplus  stock 
earlier  in  the  season,  reserving  only  sufficient  for  their 
own  use ;  and  it  was  not  long  until  our  supply  was  re 
duced  to  apples  and  potatoes.  I  see  that  I  have  made 
a  vegetable  of  the  apple,  but  that 's  no  worse  than 
calling  potatoes  "spuds,"  as  people  do  here.  You  may 
be  sure  that  members  of  this  family  suffered  nothing 
from  apprehensions  of  gout.  How  often,  when  looking 
through  our  empty  cupboard,  did  we  think  sorrowfully 
of  Dame  Hubbard's  dog !  At  breakfast,  while  munch 
ing  adamantine  bread,  bacon,  and  "  spuds,"  we  were 
apt  to  have  tormenting  visions  of  hot  griddle-cakes  and 
maple  syrup,  or  of  juicy  porterhouse  steaks,  and  eggs 
variously  served.  At  dinner,  with  the  breakfast  menu 
repeated,  some  one  was  sure  to  ask,  "  How  would  you 
like  a  good  big  slice  of  rare  roast  beef,  with  nicely 
browned  sweet  potatoes?"  "Yes,  or  scalloped  oysters, 
or  chicken  pie,  and  a  nice  crisp,  cool  salad?"  —  and  so 
on  down  through  an  imaginary  bill  of  fare. 

Lest  you  wonder  why  we  didn't  "go  to  town"  and 
renew  our  supplies,  let  me  remind  you  of  the  impassable 
condition  of  the  roads.  For  weeks  during  the  late 
winter  never  a  team  was  seen  passing.  Finally,  when 
almost  the  "  last  herring  smoked  upon  the  coals," 

two   hungry  men  arose   in   desperation,  declaring   they 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

would  at  least  find  some  cows  and  chickens.  In  the 
chill  dawn  of  the  following  morning,  in  a  pouring  rain, 
they  started  on  their  mission.  They  were  gone  until 
five  o'clock  in  the  evening ;  then  the  now  familiar 
mountain  cry,  "Whoo-whoo,"  came  echoing  through 
the  woods.  As  I  opened  the  door,  Tom  shouted, 
"  Katharine,  run  out  in  the  road  and  head  off  these 
cows." 

I  knew  by  the  tone  and  the  voice  that  this  was  a 
"  hurry-up  "  call ;  so,  throwing  the  omnipresent  shawl 
over  my  head,  I  dashed  out  of  the  house,  and,  as  self- 
preservation  is  the  first  law  of  life,  snatched  up  a  pole 
that  was  propping  up  the  limb  of  a  peach  tree,  then  flew 
down  the  path  and  out  of  the  gate  into  the  middle  of 
the  road,  and,  standing  there  in  mud  and  rain,  looked 
the  field  over.  Away  down  the  hill,  in  the  road,  stood  the 
horses  and  wagon ;  in  the  latter  I  discerned  several 
chicken-coops,  from  which  protruded  long  feathered 
necks,  with  red-combed  squawking  heads.  The  pasture 
bars  were  down,  and  standing  near  them  was  Tom.  A 
little  higher  up  the  hill  a  road  branches  ofF,  and  there 
Bert  was  stationed.  Coming  full-tilt  toward  me  were 
three  big,  wild-eyed,  galloping  cows,  with  two  very 
young-looking,  spindle-shanked  calves.  I  admit  I  was 
scared ;  but  remembering  my  great-grandsires  who 
fought  in  the  Revolution,  I  raised  the  pole  high  in  air, 
like  a  flagstaff,  and  stood  firm.  On  came  the  bovine 
brigade  until  within  a  few  rods  of  me,  when  suddenly 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

they  halted,  tossed  up  their  heads,  and  stared  at  me.  I 
hardly  believe  they  thought  I  was  alive  ;  perhaps  they 
mistook  me  for  the  statue  of  "  Liberty  enlightening  the 
World."  We  stood  there  looking  at  each  other,  until 
Tom  yelled,  "Well,  why  don't  you  do  something  ?  We 
haven't  had  a  bite  to  eat  since  breakfast."  Now,  I 
knew  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon  what  to  do ; 
but  just  then  one  of  the  cows,  one  with  awful  threat 
ening  horns,  began  pawing  up  the  mud,  so  I  called  back, 
"I  think  this  big  spotted  one  is  cross ! "  "  Cross  nothing  ! 
She 's  gentle  as  a  lamb,"  Tom  answered.  She  's  an  old 
cow,  I  thought,  the  mother  of  the  other  two.  Then 
she  must  be  the  grandmother  of  these  calves,  and  it 
would  be  rather  disrespectful  to  pounce  upon  the  old 
lady  with  this  pole.  So  I  just  continued  to  "  hold  her 
with  my  glittering  eye."  Again  Tom  roared,  "  She  won't 
hurt  you,  I  tell  you;  she's  just  scared  and  rattled !  " 

It  did  not  seem  to  me  that  the  grandmother  was  scared. 
She  had  now  advanced  several  paces,  and  was  not  only 
throwing  mud,  but  had  lowered  her  head  and  was  shak 
ing  her  horns  at  me  in  a  way  quite  disconcerting.  That 
she  was  "  rattled"  seemed  plausible  ;  certainly  her  man 
ners  were  not  reposeful.  Thinking  I  must  do  something, 
I  pounded  the  road  a  little  with  my  pole,  throwing  some 
mud  myself.  At  this  the  enemy  moved  forward  in 
solid  phalanx,  the  younger  cows  now  shaking  their 
horns  also  ;  whereupon,  forgetting  my  valorous  ancestors 

of  the  Revolution,  I  drew  a  trifle  nearer  the  rail-fence, 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

and,  again  raising  my  standard  high  in  air,  said  in  a 
hoarse,  loud  voice,  "  Huey,  cows  !  Huey  there  !  " 

No  effect  whatever,  except  upon  the  man  down  the 
road.  "  Coin'  to  stand  all  night  lookin'  at  'em  ? "  he 
yelled.  "  Why  don't  you  close  in  on  'em  ? " 

"  Close  in  on  'em,  indeed !  That 's  all  very  well, 
sir,  from  your  point  of  view,  at  the  tail  end  of  this 
caravan,"  I  thought ;  "  but  up  here  the  outlook  is  dif 
ferent,  facing  these  three  steaming  monsters,  with  six 
threatening  horns  and  twice  as  many  eager  hoofs  ";  and 
I  remarked  softly  to  myself,  "  I  won't  do  it." 

On  the  grassy  embankment  at  the  roadside,  quite 
near  me,  stood  one  of  those  grotesque  Noah's-ark  calves. 
"  I  '11  just  close  in  on  you,  my  young  friend  ;  you  will 
likely  turn  and  run  back  down  the  road,  where  I  trust 
your  perspiring  relatives  may  follow  you."  I  knew 
better  than  to  jump  at  the  creature  with  my  big  pole  ; 
so,  trailing  it  behind  me,  I  advanced  cautiously,  with 
one  hand  extended,  saying  in  sweet  tones,  "  Pretty 
little  calfie,"  —  a  piece  of  the  basest  flattery  when 
applied  to  the  sorry-looking  object  before  me.  One 
step  more  forward,  —  and  what  did  that  ungentle  idiot 
do  but  give  a  wild  snort,  leap  like  a  deer,  whirl  square 
about,  and  plunge  through  the  rail-fence, — not 
through,  either,  for  it  stuck  fast  between  the  rails, 
bawling  at  the  top  of  its  voice.  Mercy,  Nell,  you 
ought  to  have  seen  grandma  then !  She  ploughed  across 
that  muddy  road,  scrambled  up  the  green  bank,  and, 
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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

standing  before  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  literally  tore  up 
the  sod.  Both  daughters  charged  after  her,  all  bellow 
ing,  all  pawing  sod,  and  even  the  other  calf,  that  wasn't 
in  the  affair  at  all,  added  his  waitings,  while  away  down 
the  road  the  scared  chickens  squawked  louder  than  ever. 
Seeing  the  ruin  I  had  wrought,  I  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  fence,  ready  to  drop  on  the  other  side  if  future 
developments  should  make  it  necessary.  Up  the  road 
came  both  men  running,  and  I  thought,  "Now,  Kath 
arine,  you  '11  catch  it !  "  But,  to  my  great  surprise, 
not  one  solitary  word  did  they  utter,  not  even  to  each 
other.  Half  starved,  soaked  through  and  through  with 
misery,  they  seemed  dumbly  desperate.  Rain  trickled 
in  streams  from  their  rubber  coats  and  hats ;  their  boots 
were  muddy  to  the  tops,  mud  was  on  their  faces  and  in 
their  hair,  as,  silent  and  grim,  with  stoical  fortitude  they 
pulled  and  tugged  at  that  vicious  little  centipede  of  a 
calf.  Tom  had  seized  it  by  its  tail  and  hind  feet,  while 
Bert  had  climbed  the  fence  and  gathered  up  its  sprawl 
ing  front  legs,  and  together  they  were  folding  it  over 
like  an  omelet,  poking  and  pulling  it  sideways  through 
the  fence.  At  last  the  sufferer  was  released,  but  only 
to  be  instantly  seized  again  by  both  men,  who,  clasping 
it  in  a  damp  embrace,  bore  it  off  down  the  hill,  with 
all  those  bellowing  bovines  at  their  heels.  As  that  sol 
emn  procession  filed  away,  I  had  a  haunting  sense  of 
having  seen  something  like  it  in  the  sculptured  frieze 

of  some  great  public  building.     I  watched  until  their 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

burden  was  safely  shoved  into  fields  elysian,  the  cows  all 
walking  in  after  it,  and  then  three  bars  were  put  up,  — 
only  three,  a  piece  of  carelessness  which  led  to  future 
trouble.  I  was  pained  to  observe  the  other  calf  still 
walking  around  outside  the  fence. 

Thinking  I  had  done  about  all  the  good  I  could,  I 
was  going  to  retire  quietly  from  the  scene,  when  Tom 
called  out,  "  Drop  that  pole  and  come  and  help  catch 
this  other  calf."  A  hungry  man  is  seldom  a  polite  one. 
Obeying  orders,  I  advanced  unarmed  down  the  hill.  I 
saw  at  a  glance  that  their  plan  was  to  surround  and  cap 
ture  the  calf  where  it  stood,  in  a  fence  corner.  I  have 
a  quick  discernment  of  field  tactics  —  inherited,  most 
likely.  The  unsuspecting  victim  was  gazing  longingly 
through  the  fence  at  its  mother,  not  noticing  the  environ 
ing  forces;  but  just  as  we  were  about  to  close  in  upon  it 
it  looked  up,  and,  seeing  three  frightful  ogres  with  arms 
outstretched,  gave  a  terrified  leap  through  the  cordon 
and  went  flying  up  the  branch  road.  "  The  dun  deer's 
hide  to  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied."  Away  we  all 
went  in  hot  pursuit.  Not  being  much  of  a  sprinter 
myself,  I  was  soon  left  far  in  the  wake.  Suddenly  the 
pursued,  descrying  a  big  pile  of  brush  by  the  roadside 
and  mistaking  it  for  a  rock  of  refuge,  turned  aside  and 
dashed  into  it,  and  there,  lacerated  by  thorns  and  briers, 
it  began  to  roar.  Hearing  a  bellowing  and  a  thundering 
of  hoofs  behind  me,  I  glanced  back,  and  saw  tearing 
up  the  road  every  last  one  of  those  infuriated  cows.  A 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

steep  hill  slopes  down  to  one  side  of  the  road ;  and  up 
this  height  dashed  the  now  poleless  daughter  of  the 
Revolution,  where,  climbing  high  among  the  roots  of  a 
giant  upturned  fir  tree,  she  surveyed  the  scene. 

Just  then  a  strange  thing  happened.  I  saw,  as 
plainly  as  I  now  see  this  paper,  the  stage  of  a  theatre  in 
a  far  distant  city,  and  standing  out  upon  a  jutting  cliff 
the  tall  picturesque  figure  of  Meg  Merrilies.  Beyond, 
through  trees  and  rocks,  was  a  faint  glimpse  of  a  sullen 
sea ;  while  immediately  below  her  was  a  dark  narrow 
glen  lit  up  by  gypsy  campfires.  Though  at  the  time 
this  seemed  strange,  I  now  see  that  the  outlook  from 
my  lofty  perch  very  naturally  recalled  this  half- forgotten 
scene.  Night  was  now  coming  on ;  low-lying  mists 
upon  the  meadow  gave  to  it  in  that  half-light  a  look  of 
the  sea ;  all  about  me  were  the  same  dark  hills,  and 
below  was  just  such  a  little  glen  as  I  had  seen  in  my 
vision.  There  were  no  rocks  and  no  campfires,  but, 
instead,  a  big  brush-pile,  teeming  with  life,  a  confused 
jumble  of  rubber  coats,  hoofs,  and  horns,  and  in  its 
centre  the  struggling  calf  sinking  deeper  at  every  lunge. 
Clawing  over  it  were  its  would-be  captors ;  on  the  out 
skirts  those  roaring  bedlamites  tossing  the  brush  with 
hoofs  and  horns.  Dead  ferns  and  wild  blackberry  vines 
clinging  to  her  horns,  the  aged  one  looked  a  dangerous 
Nemesis,  —  and  was,  too,  for  she  had  to  be  beaten  back 
with  brush.  Doubtless  Thomas  would  now  have  been 
glad  of  my  pole.  Finally  the  pitfall  yielded  up  its  victim, 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

which  was  carried  to  a  low  place  in  the  fence,  and 
gently  dropped  into  the  fold.  As  soon  as  its  voice  was 
hushed,  that  concord  of  sweet  sounds  died  away,  the 
cows  became  submissive  and  were  easily  driven  back 
into  the  meadow,  and  once  again  sweet  peace  descended 
on  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs. 


69 


VIII 

ON  the  morning  following  the  "  round-up  "  of  our 
new  cows,  while  breakfast  was  being  prepared, 
Tom   sallied  forth  with  a  bright  new  tin  pail 
to  do  the  milking.     The  cook,  while  striving  to  feel 
hopeful  of  the  result,  had  secret  misgivings,  doubting 
very  much  whether  the  gentleman  had  ever  milked  a 
cow,  as  we  had  never  before  owned  one,  knowing,  also, 
that  if  such  were  the  case  he  never  would  admit  it,  and, 
if  doubts  were  expressed,  he  would  at  once  begin  to 

talk  about  that  summer  he  "  worked  for  Uncle    Tim." 

*  J 

It  seems  that  when  a  lad  of  twelve  he  spent  one  sum 
mer  on  his  uncle's  farm  ;  and  if  he  then  did  all  the 
things  he  now  thinks  he  did,  he  must  have  been  a  mar 
vel  of  boyish  industry  and  activity.  Those  seem  to 
have  been  the  red-letter  days  of  his  life ;  perhaps  there 
budded  then  a  love  of  country  life  that  eventually  led 
to  the  possession  of  this  mountain  home.  He  has  talked 
of  that  blessed  summer  all  through  the  years,  and  I 
must  confess  there  have  been  times  in  my  life  when 
those  reminiscences  seemed  a  burden  and  a  weariness. 
Now,  when  he  reverts  to  the  subject,  I  can't  help 
thinking  of  the  never-ending  regrets  of  Mrs.  Blimber 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  that  she  had  not  known  Cicero,  and  talked  with  him 
in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum,  beautiful  Tusculum." 
Rather  than  risk  the  revival  of  this  Arcadian  dream,  I 
pretended  to  believe  that  Tom  could  milk. 

After  an  absence  of  about  an  hour  he  came  in,  and 
from  where  I  stood  I  could  see  nothing  in  the  pail. 

"  Have  n't  you  milked  ?  " 

"  Sure  !  "  he  answered,  waving  the  pail  before  me. 

"  Good  gracious !   Is  that  all  ? " 

"  Of  course.     How  much  did  you  expect  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  think  two  cows  ought  to  give  more 
than  a  pint  of  milk." 

"  No ;  this  is  just  about  right  when  the  calves  are 
with  them." 

In  a  day  or  two  stalls  were  made  for  those  voracious 
calves,  and  they  were  put  on  half  rations.  Then  I 
ventured  to  remark,  "  Now  you  will  get  milk  galore." 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  ought  to  get  a  little  more.'*  The  in 
crease,  however,  was  scarcely  noticeable,  which  he  ex 
plained  by  saying  the  cows  would  n't  "  give  down,"  — 
"  they  never  do  when  first  separated  from  their  calves." 
I  believed  this  to  be  a  bit  of  suddenly  inspired  fiction  to 
cover  his  own  shortcomings,  but  managed  to  hold  my 
peace.  I  kept  hoping  and  waiting  for  several  days,  and 
then  one  morning  when  he  appeared  with  the  usual 
quart,  I  quite  forgot  myself,  and  blazed  forth  with,  "Tom 
Graham,  I  don't  believe  you  know  how  to  milk  !  " 

You  should  have  seen  his  look  of  indignant  surprise ! 

71 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

It  was  equal  to  Sairey  Gamp's  when  the  existence  of 
her  beloved  Mrs.  Harris  was  doubted. 

"  Know  how  ?  I  guess  you  forget  that  summer  I 
worked  for  Uncle  Jim  !  ' 

"  No  ;  I  have  never  been  allowed  to  forget  it.  I 
suppose  you  milked  a  dozen  cows  then,  night  and  morn 
ing,  did  n't  you  ? " 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  did  n't ;   I  milked  five." 

"  If  you  did,  it  was  so  long  ago  that  you  have  for 
gotten  the  art." 

"  No,  milking  is  like  swimming ;  the  accomplish 
ment,  once  acquired,  is  never  forgotten."  Presently  he 
added  thoughtfully  :  "  Speaking  just  now  of  Uncle 
Jim  reminds  me  —  and  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  you 
about  it  —  that  I  was  down  in  the  field  the  other  morn 
ing,  when  suddenly  out  rang  the  clear  notes  of  a  bird, 
the  same  that  I  heard  a  thousand  times  that  summer, 
tilting  and  lilting  from  the  tops  of  the  tall  rosin-weeds. 
Here  I  found  him  poised  on  a  branch  of  vine  maple ; 
but  it  was  the  very  same  bird,  and  for  about  a  minute  I 
was  a  straw-hatted  barefoot  boy,  going  for  the  cows  in 
Uncle  Jim's  pasture,  wading  through  tall  slough  grass 
higher  than  my  head.  I  could  almost  hear  it  rustling 
and  feel  the  rushes  crawling  under  my  bare  feet  with  a 
sort  of  squeaking  sound,  and  all  about  me  were  those 
chipper  little  birds  swaying  upon  the  rosin-weeds,  sing 
ing  as  if  to  split  their  throats.  I  tell  you,  it  is  worth 

coming  to  Oregon  just  to  hear  and  see  that  bird  again." 

72 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

This  boyhood  bird,  so  strangely  reappearing  in  Tom's 
later  life,  seemed  to  afford  him  such  genuine  pleasure 
that  I  decided  to  accept  it  as  a  flag  of  truce,  and  sus 
pend  hostilities  over  the  problem  of  the  cows.  In  about 
another  week  the  novice  mastered  the  art  of  milking, 
the  cows  suddenly  began  to  "give  down,"  and  from 
that  time  on  we  had  abundance  of  milk. 

Mary  assured  me  they  had  had  about  the  same  experi 
ence  at  their  place.  I  have  not  told  you  that  Bert  took 
possession  of  their  new  home  the  day  after  the  late 
"round-up."  Following  the  last  load  of  goods  was  Bert, 
leading  the  big  spotted  cow, — more  correctly  speaking, 
the  big  spotted  cow  leading  Bert.  Not  quite  liking  her 
tricks  and  manners,  I  was  glad  to  learn  that  she  was  his 
property  and  not  ours.  She  had  already  acquired  the 
name  of  "  Medusa."  It  came,  Bert  said,  as  an  inspi 
ration  ;  watching  me  standing  motionless  so  long,  facing 
her,  he  believed  I  had  been  turned  into  stone. 

The  cows  had  no  special  names ;  all  alike  had  been 
called  "  bossy."  Now,  surely  a  good  cow  is  entitled  to 
the  distinction  of  a  name.  Anyway,  we  believe  in  nam 
ing  them,  and  everything  else  on  the  place  that  is  alive. 
We  fancy,  in  our  isolation,  that  with  names  they  seem 
more  human  and  companionable.  We  see  so  few 
people  up  here  in  the  woods  that  we  have  to  talk  a 
good  deal  to  the  animals,  lest  we  forget  the  habit  of 
speech  and  all  become  mutes.  So  our  two  cows  were 
named  Dolly  Varden  and  Maud  Muller  ;  but  after  a 

73 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

long  acquaintance  with  Maud,  we  found  she  was  not  the 
guileless,  rustic  beauty  she  appeared.  She  was  tricky, 
a  schemer,  and  rather  unprincipled,  opening  gates  and 
barn-doors  with  her  horns,  helping  herself  to  provender 
at  unseasonable  hours,  or,  if  attracted  by  the  waving  of 
feathery  carrot  and  green  turnip  tops  beyond  a  fence, 
she  simply  threw  off  the  upper  rails,  and  leaped  over 
the  remaining  ones,  as  though  she  supposed  those 
things  were  planted  for  her  especial  use,  but  through 
some  oversight  her  attention  had  not  been  called  to 
them.  Owing  to  these  characteristics,  we  felt  obliged 
to  change  her  name  to  Becky  Sharp.  The  calves  are 
known  as  Buttercup  and  Trilby,  if  you  please,  —  and 
you  need  n't  laugh  !  You  are  thinking  of  the  muddy 
little  wretches  that  arrived  here  that  rainy  night ;  but 
you  must  remember  this  is  written  at  a  later  date,  and 
those  calves  grew  in  beauty  with  the  springtime,  and 
when  June  came  they  were  as  lovely  as  her  roses.  Such 
winsome,  witching  things  you  never  saw ;  and  if  only 
Rosa  Bonheur  were  alive,  and  I  could  have  her  do  them 
in  oil  (for  nothing),  I  'd  send  you  their  pictures  as  proof 
that  this  description  is  no  flattery. 

But  I  seem  to  have  drifted  far  from  my  subject,  and 
must  go  back  and  tell  you  of  my  first  butter-making. 
For  several  days  cream  had  been  accumulating ;  and  at 
last  came  a  morning  when  there  was  enough  for  churn 
ing.  A  pleasurable  excitement  seized  me,  and  I  was 
all  eagerness  to  begin  the  work.  I  had  never  in  my 

74 


LETTERS   FROM   AN   OREGON    RANCH 

life  made  a  pound  of  butter,  but  you  know  there  is  a 
certain  charm  connected  with  every  new  experience,  — 
although  at  this  later  date  my  ardor  has  considerably 
diminished.  After  breakfast,  I  found  our  ranchmen 
had  an  errand  at  a  saw-mill  back  in  the  mountains. 
Mary  was  going  with  them,  and  I  was  urged  to  go  too; 
but  that  churn  was  drawing  me  like  a  lodestone,  —  not 
for  worlds  would  I  have  left  it.  I  had  learned  that  a 
part  of  the  road  they  were  going  over  ran  along  a  nar 
row  ridge  on  either  side  of  which  was  a  deep  canyon,  a 
sort  of  Scylla  and  Charybdis  affair ;  and  having  a  horror 
of  such  a  road,  I  made  that  my  excuse  for  not  going, 
not  mentioning  the  churning,  intending  to  surprise 
them  agreeably  on  their  return,  both  families  being  quite 
destitute  of  butter. 

As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  off,  I  rushed  for  the  churn, 
—  a  barrel-shaped  revolving  affair,  which,  it  seemed  to 
me  while  lugging  it  in,  ought  to  have  been  built  on 
rollers  or  at  least  on  casters.  Then  came  the  treasured 
can  of  cream,  the  butter-bowl,  ladle,  mould,  oiled 
paper,  long-handled  spoon,  jar  of  salt,  thermometer,  tea 
kettle  of  hot  water,  and  two  pamphlets  on  the  art  of 
butter-making.  One  of  the  latter  had  come  with  the 
churn,  giving  full  instructions ;  the  other,  equally  ex 
plicit,  was  from  a  State  Agricultural  College.  I  sat 
down  to  consult  these  authorities. 

"  First  scald  the  churn."  Easy  enough  !  I  poured 
in  the  boiling  water,  and  began  whirling  the  crank 

75 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

with  great  enthusiasm,  when  out  popped  the  cork  with 
a  noise  like  the  report  of  a  Winchester,  followed  by 
a  revolving  stream  of  hot  water  and  steam.  The  oper 
ator,  though  scared  and  trembling,  stuck  to  her  post, 
knowing  the  thing  must  be  stopped,  and  stopped  with 
the  nozzle-end  up,  though  several  revolutions  were 
made  before  this  could  be  accomplished.  The  cork 
had  blown  to  the  other  side  of  the  room ;  but  I  dared 
not  leave  my  post  to  get  it,  —  I  felt  sure  that  if  the 
churn  were  released  it  would  turn  over  and  begin  spout 
ing  again.  It  was  plain  the  mountain  must  go  to 
Mahomet ;  so,  pushing  the  sputtering  and  pulsating  ma 
chine  across  the  floor,  I  reached  and  replaced  the  cork, 
hooked  the  churn  back  in  its  place,  and  then  paused 
to  consider,  —  thankful  indeed  that  my  precious  cream 
was  not  in  the  machine  when  the  explosion  occurred. 

Turning  again  to  my  butter  lore,  I  read  :  "  Remove 
cork  at  intervals  to  allow  escape  of  steam."  In  my 
eagerness  to  get  down  to  business,  I  had  overlooked 
that  detail.  Well,  the  cork  had  removed  itself,  and 
that  part  of  the  affair  was  over ;  so  I  proceeded  to  mop 
up  the  overflow,  looking  ruefully  at  my  new  wall 
paper. 

The  next  step  was  the  heating  of  the  cream,  which 
my  authorities  said  must  be  tested  with  the  thermometer. 
Then  came  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life.  I  felt, 
perhaps,  as  does  a  great  scientist,  shut  up  in  his  labora 
tory,  engaged  in  some  wonderful  chemical  experiment 

76 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

that  may  startle  a  waiting  world.  Slowly  the  temper 
ature  of  the  cream  rose  to  6zl°.  I  could  not  understand 
its  slowness, —  mine  having  risen  to  at  least  150°  in 
the  same  time.  The  critical  moment  had  arrived. 
The  rich  Jersey  cream  was  poured  into  the  churn,  the 
lid  clamped  down,  the  cork  pounded  in  with  the  potato- 
masher.  The  operator,  seated,  with  book  in  hand,  now 
read :  "  Eighty  revolutions  per  minute  the  proper  rate 
of  speed."  To  a  lady  of  quiet  habits  that  seemed 
"  the  pace  that  kills,"  but  at  it  I  went  with  might  and 
main,  whirling  the  crank  so  fast  I  could  n't  count ;  it 
might  have  been  eight  hundred  instead  of  eighty  times 
per  minute.  Anyway,  I  got  scared,  thinking  a  hot-box 
might  be  the  next  feature  ;  so  I  slowed  down  to  perhaps 
eight  revolutions  a  minute. 

More  comfortable  now,  I  looked  at  the  churning 
equipment,  thinking  all  butter-makers  should  have  a 
dairy-room  where  such  things  could  be  kept,  and  not 
need  to  be  collected  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe 
when  wanted.  I  rather  fancied  I  'd  like  such  a  one 
as  Queen  Victoria  had  at  Balmoral  Castle ;  but  that 
seemed  almost  too  aspiring.  I  then  fell  back  on  Mrs. 
Poyser's,  as  described  by  George  Eliot :  "  The  dairy 
was  certainly  worth  looking  at.  A  scene  to  sicken  for 
in  hot  and  dusty  streets,  —  such  coolness,  such  purity, 
such  fresh  fragrance  of  new-pressed  cheese,  of  firm 
butter,  of  wooden  vessels  perpetually  bathed  in  pure 
water;  such  soft  coloring  of  red  earthenware  and  creamy 

77 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

surfaces,  brown  wood  and  polished  tin,  gray  limestone 
and  rich  orange  rust  on  the  iron  weights  and  hooks  and 
hinges."  Then,  naturally,  I  fell  a-thinking  of  the  be 
witching  Hetty,  —  of  the  rose-petal  cheeks,  the  round 
dimpled  arms  and  pretty  hands  tossing  and  patting  the 
butter,  losing  myself  in  the  tragical  story  of  that  young 
life  until  recalled  to  consciousness  by  a  queer  slushing 
about  of  the  cream  in  my  own  churn.  Looking  in  the 
glass  at  the  top  of  the  churn,  I  was  terrified  to  see  that 
it  was  quite  clear,  and  the  book  said,  when  that  oc 
curred,  "  STOP,"  in  letters  about  the  size  of  those  seen 
at  railroad  crossings. 

Trembling  with  the  fear  that  all  was  lost,  I  nervously 
removed  the  lid,  glanced  in,  and,  lo !  there  was  the  but 
ter,  just  as  predicted  by  the  sages,  "  golden  globules 
half  the  size  of  a  kernel  of  wheat."  Oh,  the  pride  of 
Miss  McBride,  as  she  drew  off  the  buttermilk,  rins 
ing  the  butter  three  times  in  pure  spring  water,  scald 
ing  and  cooling  the  bowl,  taking  out  that  mass  of 
golden  glory,  sprinkling  salt  over  it,  and  then  trying 
desperately  to  "  work  it,"  like  one  to  the  manner  born. 

My  instructions  were,  after  the  first  working,  to  set 
it  aside  for  five  hours;  this  seemed  a  cruel  delay,  but, 
mine  "  not  to  reason  why,"  I  was  about  to  obey  orders, 
when  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  my  excitement  I  had  for 
gotten  to  taste  it.  And  then  I  had  a  surprise  and  shock 
I  am  not  likely  to  forget.  As  the  flavor  reached  my 
palate,  I  recoiled  and  stood  aghast.  How  could  any 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

thing  so  beautiful  possibly  taste  so  vile  ?  It  surely  had 
not  absorbed  the  odors  of  cookery,  as  the  cream  had 
been  kept  out  in  the  pure  air.  Yet  there  it  was,  —  a 
bad-tasting,  ill-smelling  lump  of  yellow  hypocrisy.  At 
first  I  thought  I  'd  carry  it  up  the  yard  to  a  thicket  of 
salmon  bushes  so  dense  no  human  being  could  penetrate 
it,  hurl  the  mass  of  iniquity  into  its  most  secret  fast 
nesses,  then  hurry  back  and  remove  all  traces  of  the  late 
struggle  before  the  "  return  of  the  natives,"  and  never 
tell  a  living  soul  about  it.  But  I  soon  saw  that  scheme 
would  never  work.  Tom  had  been  as  proud  as  Punch 
over  that  cream ;  he  would  miss  it,  and  explanations 
would  be  called  for.  So  I  sat  down,  and  mused  drearily 
upon  the  Wandering  Willies'  return  and  the  horrible 
surprise  awaiting  them. 


79 


IX 

HAVING  recovered  somewhat  from  the  partial 
anaesthesia  that  had  come  upon  me  from  in 
haling  the  fumes  of  my  astonishing  butter,  I 
was  seated  before  the  fireplace  trying  to  recover  my 
self,  when  the  excursionists  rushed  in,  jubilant  over  the 
picturesque  scenery  of  their  drive. 

"  Oh,  but  you  missed  a  good  thing  by  not  going 
with  us,"  they  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  retorted  the  angel  of  the 
hearth. 

"  We  've  had  the  time  of  our  lives  !  " 

"  So  have  I,"  I  tranquilly  replied. 

"  What  doing,  —  trout-fishing  ?  " 

"  Just  compose  yourselves  and  I  '11  show  you." 
Then  I  went  out  and  brought  in  the  butter.  As  the 
napkin  was  lifted,  disclosing  that  mass  of  golden  decep 
tion,  there  arose  a  universal  chorus  of  delight  and 
admiration. 

"  What  lovely  butter  !  "  cried  Mary.  "  Did  you 
really  make  it  yourself?" 

"  Why,  you  're  a  butter-maker  indeed  !  "  exclaimed 
Tom.  "We're  proud  of  you!'3 

My    knowledge   of  the   baleful    aftermath    kept    me 

80 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

reasonably  calm  under  this  shower  of  compliments. 
"  Now  you  must  all  come  out  in  the  dining-room  and 
sample  it,"  I  said. 

Supplied  with  forks,  each  took  a  generous  dose. 
Then  they  glared  at  each  other,  dismay  and  disgust 
upon  every  countenance. 

"  Shades  of  the  mighty  ! "  cried  Tom.  "  What 
flavoring  did  you  use,  —  sage,  parsley,  bergamot,  or 
wild  onions  ? " 

"  Seems  more  like  paregoric  or  linseed  oil,"  sputtered 
Bert. 

Mary  —  I  suppose  through  sympathy  for  me  —  said 
nothing,  but  I  observed  that  she  was  drinking  water 
copiously. 

"  Are  you  sure,  Katharine,  that  you  did  n't  use  Epsom 
or  Rochelle  salts  in  this  stuff?" 

"  No,  Tom  ;  the  salt  used  was  the  right  brand.'* 

"  Well,  what  the  dickens  does  ail  it  ? " 

No  one  being  able  to  diagnose  the  case,  we  all  sat 
down  around  that  diabolical  bowl  and  held  a  sort  of 
round-table  talk.  The  pronounced  herby  flavor  sug 
gesting  the  pasture,  the  men  remembered  that  quantities 
of  mint  grew  there ;  also  dandelion,  dock,  English 
yarrow,  sorrel,  and  similar  things.  Of  course  the  cows 
had  eaten  them,  and  this  was  the  direful  result.  During 
this  conference  it  became  known  that  every  one  had 
noticed  a  peculiar  tang  to  the  milk,  but,  through 
loyalty  to  the  cows,  none  had  spoken  of  it. 

6  81 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  And  now,  fellow-citizens,"  said  Tom,  "  what  dis 
position  are  we  to  make  of  this  delectable  potpourri  ? " 

"  Well,  Bert  will  take  a  part  of  it,  and  - 

"  Not  by  a  good  deal  !  "  interrupted  that  gentleman, 
hastily. 

"  It  was  your  own  proposal !  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  remember  that  was  before 
taking." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  I  replied  with  wounded  dignity, 
"  the  product  of  our  dairy  is  not  forced  upon  our 
friends." 

"  For  which  praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings 
flow  !  "  retorted  that  irreverent  individual. 

"Well,  then,  this  butter  must  be  sold." 

"Katharine,  you  are  beside  yourself;  much  churning 
hath  made  you'  mad !  Are  you  so  lacking  in  moral 
principle  as  to  sell  what  you  yourself  cannot  eat  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  am.  I  fancy  Oregonians  are  accustomed 
to  this  flavor  in  early  spring  butter  and  rather  like  it." 

"  You  '11  never  catch  me  in  the  busy  marts  of  men 
with  this  stuff  for  sale." 

"  Of  course,  not  as  our  own ;  it  must  be  disposed  of 
anonymously  or  under  a  nom  de  plume.  You  take  it 
to  the  metropolis,  lay  in  your  grocery  supplies,  then  say 
quite  innocently,  (  Oh,  by  the  way,  a  lady  sent  in  some 
butter  with  me  ;  came  near  forgetting  it.'  Produce  it, 
and  then  fly  for  your  life." 

"  But  those  men  know  all  the  butter-makers  of  the 

82 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

country,  and  that  groceryman  will  ask,  '  Whose  butter 
is  this  ? '  " 

"  Then  look  him  square  in  the  eye  and  say,  '  Mrs. 
Jacob  Ruggles's  butter.'  Whereupon  he  will  frown 
reflectively,  saying,  '  Ruggles,  Ruggles,  —  I  can't  recall 
any  Ruggles  up  your  way.'  Tell  him  they  are  new 
comers  from  the  Kentucky  bluegrass  region." 

"  Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive," 

sighed  Mary. 

"  That 's  so,  Mary  ;  we  're  getting  tangled  in  a  laby 
rinth  of  lies.  Let 's  try  a  new  tack.  How  would  this 
do  ?  You  remember,  Katharine,  that  set  of  old  tin 
candle-moulds  that  I  raked  out  from  under  the  porch  ? 
Well,  say  we  melt  this  stuff,  mould  it  in  those  things, 
make  Roman  candles  of  it,  and  then  throw  them  on 
the  market  about  the  Fourth  of  July.  I  'm  sure  they  '11 
go  off  with  a  boom." 

With  this  brilliant  suggestion  the  conference  broke 
up. 

And  now  you  have  our  first  experience  in  butter- 
making.  The  surprise  was  never  eaten ;  Tom  used  it 
for  axle-grease,  —  to  my  lasting  humiliation.  Two  or 
three  weeks  later  the  butter  suddenly  became  sweet  and 
delicious.  Then  I  knew  the  joy  of  the  ancient  mariner 
when  the  dead  albatross  fell  from  his  neck. 

But  it  occurs  to  me  that  in  your  Eastern  home 

83 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

you  will  be  in  the  swirl  of  holiday  festivities  when  this 
rigmarole  reaches  you,  and  will  scarcely  have  time  to 
read  it.  Up  here  in  the  Oregon  hills  there  is  none  of 
that  "  Christmas  feel  in  the  air  "  that  Riley  speaks  of, 
and  we  can  hardly  realize  that  the  event  is  but  three 
days  off.  Thinking  of  it  one  cannot  help  longing  a 
little  for  brilliantly  illuminated  streets  and  stores,  spec 
tacular  show-windows,  the  hurrying  and  jostling  throng 
of  Christmas  shoppers,  the  bundle-laden  crowds  of  the 
streets  and  trolley-cars,  the  art-exhibits,  theatres,  concerts, 
and  the  fine  Christmas  music  of  the  churches.  What 
would  I  not  give  to  hear  once  again  the  deep  rolling 
waves  of  harmony  from  a  big  pipe-organ,  thrilling  and 
uplifting  the  soul !  But  perhaps  most  of  all  just  at  this 
time  we  miss  our  dear  old  fun-loving  friends,  dropping 
in  at  all  hours,  brimming  over  with  bright  talk  of  secret 
plans  and  projects.  Here  we  have  none  of  that  com 
panionship.  You  will  think  it  incredible  when  I  tell 
you  that  since  last  July  I  have  not  spoken  to  a  woman 
—  nor  a  man,  either,  except  the  occasional  workmen 
we  have  employed,  —  always,  of  course,  excepting  the 
other  two  members  of  our  quartet.  The  most  of  our 
near  neighbors  are  men  "  keeping  bachelor's  hall,"  — 
interested,  I  suppose,  in  their  own  problems  of  life,  with 
no  time  for  visiting.  Do  you  wonder  that  we  talk  to 
our  dumb  friends  the  animals  ? 

We   were   pleased   when   one   night   last   week   the 

weather    suddenly    turned    cold,    freezing    the    ground 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

slightly.  The  next  morning  the  air  was  cool,  crisp, 
and  delightfully  exhilarating,  much  like  our  weather  at 
home,  —  only,  of  course,  not  so  cold.  Every  blade  of 
grass,  bush,  twig,  and  tree  had  a  covering  of  hoar-frost ; 
even  the  fir  trees  were  decked  in  white  robes  for  the 
coming  Christmas  carnival.  Later  in  the  day  the  sun 
turned  on  his  flashlight,  showering  all  with  diamond 
dust  as  a  finishing  touch.  Such  purity,  such  whiteness 
and  glitter !  Our  little  hill-guarded  glen  was  for  two 
whole  days  a  veritable  fairy-land,  and  we  were  grateful 
for  the  usual  holiday  setting,  though  the  festivities  were 
lacking.  But  on  Saturday  evening  dull  leaden  clouds 
came  up  from  the  sea,  and  an  hour  later  we  groaned 
in  spirit  as  the  rain  poured  heavily  upon  the  roof. 
Sunday  morning  we  found  all  our  frosty  splendor 
vanished ;  the  firs  were  in  their  sober  every-day  gowns, 
with  misty  veils  flying  about  their  heads,  while  down 
from  the  hills  floated  a  tearful  Miserere.  Perhaps, 
having  shown  a  foolish  pride  in  their  snowy  vest 
ments,  Dame  Nature  had  as  a  punishment  folded  them 
away  and  condemned  the  firs  to  the  "  wearing  of  the 
green "  again,  with  banishment  from  the  Santa  Claus 
pageant. 

That  evening,  as  the  rain  tinkled  against  the  window- 
panes,  Tom  said,  "  This  is  n't  very  Christmasy,  but 
let  Js  read  the  old  Carol  again,  just  for  luck." 

For  many  years,  at  this  season,  it  has  been  our  custom 
to  read  aloud  Dickens's  Christmas  Carol,  just  to  get  in 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

tune  with  the  spirit  of  the  blessed  Yuletide ;  now, 
looking  through  our  book-shelves,  it  was  not  to  be 
found,  —  probably  loaned  to  some  one  in  the  old 
home  and  thus  left  behind.  So  even  that  pleasure 
was  denied  us. 

This  afternoon  we  went  up  into  the  forest  in  search 
of  Christmas  decorations.  Cloudy  and  dark  outside, 
inside  the  woods  we  found  the  duskiness  of  twilight,  —  a 
restful  solitude,  solemn  and  still.  Underneath  our  feet 
was  a  carpet  of  emerald  moss,  soft  and  velvety  ;  over 
head,  a  canopy  of  green  so  dense  that  not  even  a  passing 
cloud  could  peer  through  it.  All  around  us  were  the 
graceful,  motionless  fronds  of  the  magnificent  sword- 
fern,  and  pretty  autumn-tinted  climbing  and  trailing 
vines.  Truly,  the  groves  were  not  only  God's  first 
temples,  but  his  best,  truest,  and  holiest  always.  We 
felt  loath  to  leave  such  a  peaceful  sanctuary,  loitering 
long  in  its  cool  moist  gloom,  selecting  our  woodland 
treasures  with  perplexity  because  of  their  bewildering 
profusion  and  perfection. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  forest,  just  in  its  edge  we 
scared  up  a  flock  of  mountain  quail.  A  whir  of  wings, 
a  flash  of  jaunty  topknots,  and  they  were  gone.  A 
bushy-tailed  squirrel  frisked  along  the  top  rail  of  the 
fence.  A  saucy  bluejay  scolded  us  from  the  silvery 
moss  of  a  young  oak,  —  a  fine  setting  for  his  military 
jacket.  As  we  found  it  raining  briskly  out  in  the  open, 

we  took  a  short  cut   home,  along   the  crest  of  a  very 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

high  hill.  We  arrived  none  too  soon,  for  as  we  entered 
the  shelter  of  the  porch  a  deluge  descended,  and  all 
the  evening  it  has  rained  steadily  and  drearily.  Ordi 
narily  I  don't  much  mind  it ;  but  just  now  I  long  for 
the  old-time  biting,  nipping  cold,  for  crunching  snow, 
and  merry  jingling  sleigh-bells.  Don't  think  that  I 
am  homesick  ;  I  am  not,  but  I  'd  like  to  be  with  you 
all  for  the  next  two  weeks,  and  then  fly  straight  back 
to  my  beloved  hills  of  Oregon. 


X 


YOU  must  not  rashly  infer,  from  the  close  of  my 
last    letter,   that   we  were    enveloped  in   a   pall 
of  homesickness    on    the    occasion    of  our  first 
Christmas  on  a  ranch.      It  is  true  that  the  day  was  not 
the  maddest,  merriest  one  of  all  the  year  for  us,  and 
perhaps     a    knowledge    of    the    privations     here    may 
heighten  appreciation  of  the  fulness  of  your  own  holi 
day  season.     So  up  goes  the  curtain  from  the  Christmas 
scene  at  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs. 

First,  you  must  know  that,  as  is  usual  here  in  win 
ter,  the  roads  are  bottomless.  Turkey,  cranberries, 
mince-pie  ingredients,  Christmas  remembrances,  all 
such  essentials,  are  twenty  miles  away,  and  as  unattain 
able  as  if  in  Darkest  Africa.  Neither  friend  nor  stranger 
could  be  hoped  for  within  our  gates.  The  decoration 
of  the  old  house  in  recognition  of  the  day  seemed  the 
only  pleasure  left  us ;  and  for  this,  Nature  stood  at  our 
very  door  offering  a  wealth  of  greenery.  Every  evil 
has  its  good,  and  this  is  one  of  Oregon's  compensations 
for  her  deplorable  roads. 

Bert  and  Mary  were  to  spend  Christmas  with  us. 
The  day  before,  early  in  the  morning,  they  appeared 

upon  the  scene  with  an  old  sled  drawn   through    the 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

mud,  laden  with  choice  branches  of  arbor  vita?  and 
mistletoe ;  the  driver  walking,  lines  in  hand,  the  lady 
crouching  in  the  green  jungle  like  a  wood-nymph. 
This  contribution  was  added  to  our  collection;  then 
with  scissors  and  baskets,.  Mary  and  I  took  a  turn  along 
an  old  rail-fence  where  wild  roses  grow  luxuriantly, 
cutting  and  filling  our  baskets  with  the  long  brown 
stems,  each  bearing  clusters  of  scarlet  rose-apples  just 
the  tint  of  holly-berries.  You  who  are  accustomed  to 
the  low-growing  wild  rose  of  the  East  will  accuse  me 
of  romancing  when  I  tell  you  that  those  bushes  were 
much  higher  than  our  heads.  In  the  summer  the 
fences  are  hidden  by  them.  When  showered  by  thou 
sands  of  pink  blooms,  their  beauty  and  perfume  beguile 
one  into  the  belief  that  these  old  lanes  lead  straight  to 
Paradise.  Alice  Gary  should  have  lived  here ;  you 
remember  she  wrote,  — 

"  And  if  my  eyes  all  flowers  but  one  must  lose, 
Our  wild  sweet-brier  would  be  the  one  to  choose." 

Bringing  our  seed  treasures  home,  and  judiciously 
mingling  them  with  the  dark-green  of  buckthorn,  a 
species  of  holly  was  evolved  rivalling  if  not  surpassing 
the  original.  The  transformation  began  in  our  main 
living-room.  The  ugly  wall-paper  and  paint  we  found 
here  have  vanished,  and  we  have  sage-green  walls,  with 
white  woodwork  except  about  the  old  fireplace,  which 

is  of  black  enamel.     The  mantel  we  banked  high  with 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

our  "Oregon  holly,"  with  statuettes  of  "Diana"  and 
"The  Wrestlers"  half  concealed  among  the  leaves. 
Just  below  the  mantel  was  placed  a  long  narrow  picture 
in  black  and  white,  —  a  fur-enveloped  Santa  Claus, 
with  frisky  reindeers  dashing  through  a  snowy  moon 
lit  forest  (set  in  black),  —  holly  gleaming  above,  and  the 
fire  below  flanked  on  one  side  by  the  brass  fire  utensils, 
on  the  other  by  a  brass  umbrella-stand  overflowing 
with  holly  branches.  The  doors  and  low  bookcases 
were  crowned  with  holly ;  bunches  of  it  tied  with  scar 
let  ribbon  were  hung  above  pictures,  and  vases  and  rose- 
bowls  were  filled.  The  windows  were  embowered 
with  ferns.  An  immense  bunch  of  mistletoe  suspended 
by  white  satin  ribbon  swung  from  the  centre  of  the 
room,  —  not  the  stiff,  dry,  crackly  kind  of  other  days, 
but  gathered  that  morning  fresh  from  the  oaks  and 
white  with  berries. 

The  artists  next  advanced  upon  the  dining-room,  — 
which  being  very  dark  is  the  dungeon  of  this  house, 
white  paint  and  yellow  ingrain  paper  struggling  bravely 
to  lighten  the  gloom.  We  made  a  frieze  of  arbor  vitae 
around  the  room,  just  above  the  picture  moulding, 
about  two  feet  in  width,  —  a  task  not  at  all  difficult,  as 
we  could  tack  the  branches  to  the  wall  undismayed  by 
fear  of  falling  plaster,  for,  for  some  inscrutable  reason, 
plaster  is  not  much  used  here.  In  place  of  it  we  have 
cheesecloth  tacked  to  the  board  wall ;  and  upon  this 

the  paper  is    pasted.     It    seems  queer,  but  looks  well, 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

and  one  can  drive  a  nail  into  it  without  having  a  man 
sound  the  wall  with  a  hammer  in  an  effort  to  find  the 
studding. 

Upon  each  end  of  our  sideboard  stood  a  red  jardiniere 
containing  a  small  Christmas  tree ;  between  them  was  a 
punch-bowl  filled  with  the  sweeping  fronds  of  the 
sword-fern ;  and  shining  amid  this  greenery  was  a  hydra- 
headed  brass  candlestick,  with  red  candles.  The  table 
was  then  formally  laid  for  the  coming  banquet.  A 
centrepiece  being  in  order,  wanting  a  green  jardiniere 
and  having  none,  a  wire  basket  used  for  frying  cro 
quettes  was  lined  with  moss,  —  the  exquisite  kind  that 
seems  woven  of  miniature  ferns,  green  side  out  of 
course,  and  well  pushed  through,  concealing  the  wires. 
In  this  we  planted  our  loveliest  little  fir  tree.  Red 
berries  were  strung  and  festooned  through  its  lower 
branches,  the  upper  ones  embellished  with  tiny  red  can 
dles  left  over  from  previous  decorations  at  our  Eastern 
home.  Placing  this  centrepiece  upon  a  round  mirror 
in  the  centre  of  the  table,  we  rested  from  our  labors 
by  the  old  stone  fireplace,  the  one  and  only  interior 
jewel  of  this  mountain  home. 

Sitting  that  evening  by  our  fireside,  watching  the 
flare  and  flicker  of  the  flames,  we  saw  passing  the  long 
procession  of  dead  and  gone  Christmases  which,  viewed 
in  retrospect,  bring  only  sadness.  Through  filmy  azure 
smoke  came  dear  shadowy  faces,  looking  back  from  the 
misty  borderlands  of  "That  Undiscovered  Country,"  — 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

faces  one  dare  not  recall  even  in  memory  lest  that  long- 
smouldering  pain  in  the  heart  blaze  up  again  with  all  its 
old-time  fierceness.  Listening  to  the  rain  and  the  noisy 
fall  of  waters  from  the  hillside  spring,  with  the  loud 
roaring  of  the  mountain  brook  dashing  through  our 
little  glen,  I  felt  as  never  before  the  pathos  of  those 
lines  in  "  In  Memoriam/'  — 

"  We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 
And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas  eve." 

The  next  morning,  while  waiting  for  Tom  to  come 
to  breakfast,  I  stepped  out  on  the  porch  to  see  how 
Christmas  really  looked  in  "  the  stranger's  land."  The 
scene,  though  not  particularly  enlivening,  might  easily 
have  been  worse.  High  up  in  one  corner  of  the  yard 
was  a  melancholy  tangle  of  salmon  bushes,  skirted  on 
two  sides  by  an  old  mossy  paling-fence  and  leafless 
trees  ;  struggling  down  from  this  were  clumps  of  wet 
brown  ferns,  gaunt  mullein  stalks,  and  frowzy-headed 
thistles ;  a  gray  alder  was  bending  over  a  mossy  spring  at 
the  end  of  the  porch,  rainy  tears  trickling  through  its 
bare  branches  and  splashing  into  the  waters  beneath. 
Farther  away  were  dark  ploughed  fields ;  above  them, 
gray  mists  rolling  stormily  through  the  hills  ;  and  grayer 
than  all  else,  "  that  inverted  bowl  they  call  the  sky," 
its  rim  resting  upon  the  green  coronet  of  encircling 
hills.  This  might  seem  a  gloomy  picture  ;  in  reality,  it 

was  one  of  tender  and  shadowy  beauty.     The  sublimity 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

and  picturesqueness  of  Oregon  scenery  are  triumphant 
over  the  worst  of  weather.  Just  then  I  recalled  a  few 
snowless  Christmases  at  home,  with  dull  skies,  hard 
frozen  ground,  icy  winds  blowing  a  gale,  and  nothing 
to  be  seen  but  streets  and  houses.  I  could  not  but 
think  how  infinitely  better  was  this  wilder  landscape, 
with  its  mingled  green  and  grayness  shut  in  by  the  gray 
bowl  above ;  and  then  and  there  I  gave  thanks  to 
our  Heavenly  Pilot  for  leading  us  into  this  wonderful 
"  land  o'  glamour." 

When  we  first  came  here  the  scenes  and  sounds  im 
pressed  me  as  vaguely  familiar, — almost  as  if  I  had 
lived  here  in  some  forgotten  time  long  past.  I  had  a 
haunting  sense  of  its  being  some  part  of  my  life's 
tangle;  but  such  a  hopeless  snarl  it  seemed,  that  I  had 
about  concluded  to  call  it  a  vagary  of  the  imagination, 
when  one  day  Bert  came  in,  saying,  "  The  torrent 
roars  in  the  vale ;  blue  mists  rise  in  the  hills ;  dark 
clouds  rest  upon  the  head  of  Mount  Nebo."  These 
sentences,  as  soon  as  heard,  solved  my  mental  perplexi 
ties.  We  were  living  again  in  Ossian's  land,  where  in 
early  girlhood  I  had  dwelt  in  fancy  while  turning  the 
fascinating  pages  of  an  old  black-and-gold  Russia  leather 
copy  of  Ossian's  Poems.  Bert's  words  were  like  a 
searchlight  turned  upon  the  darkened  past.  The  rosy 
skies  of  youth  flashed  up  ;  in  that  luminous  atmosphere 
floated  many  changeful  pictures.  The  blue  sea  was 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

there,  with  Fingal's  black  bounding  ships  with  their 
white  sails ;  warlike  hosts  with  shining  shields  and 
spears,  their  "  red  eyes  rolling  on  the  foe."  There  too 
were  the  ghosts  of  Arden,  "  with  stars  dim  twinkling 
through  their  forms."  Mountains  too  were  there,  and 
rocks,  caves,  woods,  pines,  bearded  oaks,  and  foaming 
torrents.  Only  the  most  unimaginative  could  live  in 
Oregon  and  not  hark  back  to  Ossian.  Hear  how  well 
he  describes  our  own  mountain  eyrie :  "  The  rain 
beats  hard ;  the  strength  of  the  mountain  streams  comes 
roaring  down  the  hills."  "  The  blue  stream  roars  in 
the  vale ;  the  thistle  shakes  there  its  lonely  head ;  the 
moss  whistles  in  the  wind."  "  Autumn  is  dark  on  the 
mountains;  gray  mists  rest  in  the  hills."  "  A  green  field 
in  the  bosom  of  hills."  "Rain  gathers  round  the  head 
of  Cromla;  the  stars  of  the  north  shake  heads  of  fire 
through  the  flying  mists  of  heaven."  Now,  if  you  want 
to  know  just  what  Oregon  is  like,  read  Ossian.  We 
are  a  little  short,  it  is  true,  of  kings,  warriors,  bards, 
harps,  and  ghosts;  but  all  the  rest  is  here. 

But  I  am  straying  from  my  subject.  Breakfast  over, 
the  Plymouth  Rock  fowl  safely  landed  in  the  oven,  the 
plum-pudding  steaming,  vegetables  prepared  for  cook 
ing,  feeling  then  that  what  Mrs.  Carlyle  calls  "  The 
Cares  of  Bread"  were  off  my  mind  for  a  time,  I 
said,  "Tom,  let's  go  now  and  open  our  Christmas 
packages."  We  had  no  gifts  for  each  other,  owing  to 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

the  condition  of  the  roads  that  we  must  travel  to  get 
them  ;  but  many  boxes  and  packages  from  unforgetting 
friends  at  home  had  arrived  the  previous  week,  and 
been  kept  inviolate,  as  is  our  custom,  until  Christmas 
day.  Very  soon  we  were  cutting  cords  and  untying 
ribbons,  with  exclamations  of  delight  and  surprise  as 
the  various  tokens  of  loving  remembrance  came  to 
light, —  rainbow  scarfs  as  filmy  as  mist,  late  fichus, 
fancy  aprons,  exquisite  doilies,  chatelaine  bags,  cushion 
covers,  books,  magazines,  pictures,  calendars,  and  all 
such  things.  One  would  need  to  live  a  whole  year  in 
the  solitude  of  the  woods  to  understand  my  pleasure  in 
again  seeing  novel  and  up-to-date  things  from  the  great 
world  "  that  roars  and  frets  in  the  distance. " 

One  little  gift  was  rather  funny;  and  though  it  seems 
ungracious,  I  can't  resist  telling  you  about  it.  It  was 
marked  "  From  Christine,"  —  a  Swedish  girl  who 
lived  with  us  many  years,  —  a  bright,  cheerful,  lovable 
girl  ;  and  I  wish  to  goodness  she  was  flying  about  my 
kitchen  this  blessed  minute,  singing  those  queer  old 
Scandinavian  songs  with  a  voice  as  clear  and  sweet  as  a 
lark's.  Though  Christine  can  sing  like  a  bird,  she 
certainly  is  not  an  art  connoisseur.  Her  gift  was  an 
offering  in  burnt  wood,  representing  a  large  unhappy- 
looking  lady  with  a  badly  swollen  cheek  and  painfully 
protruding  eyes.  I  had  hardly  sufficient  courage  to 
look  at  it,  but,  well  knowing  poor  Christine's  pleasure 
in  sending  it,  resolved  to  bear  it  as  best  I  could.  With 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

shuddering  tenderness  I  lifted  it  to  the  mantel.  "  Tom, 
look  at  Christine's  gift,  —  for  us  both,  she  said0"  He 
stood  awhile  before  it,  then  turned  away  saying,  "  You 
can  have  it  all !" 

The  burnt-wood  figure  was  but  a  forerunner  of  worse 
to  follow.  Being  a  woman,  Nell,  you  can  understand 
the  significance  of  the  next  thing  unearthed,  —  a  black 
knit  shoulder-shawl  with  a  purple  border. 

"  Oh,  Tom  !  "  I  cried,  "  for  mercy's  sake,  look  at 
this !  " 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ? " 

"  What  about  it  ?  Why,  don't  you  know  it 's  the 
very  first  shaft  from  Old  Age's  quiver  ?  It  means 
that  my  sear  and  yellow  days  have  come ;  that 

*  The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter  —  and  the  bird  is  on  the  wing.' ' 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  " 

"  Well,  don't  I  know,  Tom  ?  I  've  been  giving 
things  like  this  to  old  ladies  all  my  life." 

"  And  now  your  chickens  have  come  home  to  roost, 
and  the  iron  has  entered  your  own  soul !  Who  sent  it  ? " 

"  Your  aunt  Sarah,  with  this  package  for  you,  — 
and  here 's  a  note  in  which  she  says :  '  You  speak, 
Katharine,  of  living  in  a  box-house.  Now,  I  hardly 
know  what  that  means,  but  it  sounds  cold  and  must 
be  draughty ;  so  I  send  you  this  little  cape,  hoping  you 

may  find  in  it  agreeable  warmth.' ' 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Agreeable  warmth !  If  ever  a  woman  lived  who 
found  agreeable  warmth  in  her  first  black-and-purple 
shoulder-shawl,  history  has  failed  to  mention  her. 

"  What 's  this  thing  ? "  now  came  inquiringly  from 
Tom,  as  he  held  up  a  bib-shaped  scarlet-felt  affair. 

"  Mercy !  I  don't  know,  but  perhaps  this  note  will 
explain." 

"  Yes,  here  it  is.  '  I  have  been  feeling  anxious 
about  Thomas,  working  as  he  does  in  the  rain.  Do 
please  see  that  he  wears  the  chest-protector  I  send. 
One  can't  be  too  careful  of  one's  health  at  his  time 
of  life.'  " 

"  Now,  madam,  you  added  that  last  line !  " 

"  No,  sir,  here  it  is  in  black  and  white ;  read  for 
yourself." 

Just  then  a  couple  of  umbrellas  passed  the  window ; 
the  shawl  was  jerked  from  my  hand  and  wrapped  round 
the  "  life-saver,"  and  both  were  hurriedly  tucked 
behind  a  sofa-pillow,  as  Tom  whispered,  "  Katharine, 
don't  say  a  word  about  these  things  until  we  hear  how 
they  came  out." 

After  Bert  and  Mary  had  come  in  and  the  little  con 
fusion  of  their  arrival  had  subsided,  and  they  had  care 
fully  looked  over  our  Christmas  exhibit,  Bert's  roving 
eyes  fell  upon  Christine's  gift. 

"  Hello  !  where  did  you  get  the  lumpy-jawed,  frog- 
eyed  lady  ?" 

"  You  are  most  intolerably  rude,  Mr.   Stanhope,  so 

7  97 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

harshly  to  criticise  a  work  of  art  found  in  the  home 
of  your  hostess." 

"  Art  !  did  you  say,  Katharine  ?  Well,  if  that  sort 
of  art  is  rampant  in  the  world  just  now,  then  I  am 
mighty  glad  I  've  taken  to  the  woods." 

Scorning  further  talk  with  this  degenerate  son  of  the 
hills,  I  turned  to  hear  of  Mary's  presents,  listening 
eagerly,  almost  despairingly,  as  she  ran  over  a  most 
acceptable  list.  Thinking  she  had  glided  by  a  pair  of 
slippers  with  suspicious  haste,  I  asked  what  kind  they 
were. 

"  Oh,  just  common  ones." 

"  Felt  ? " 

"  No,  cloth." 

"  Lined  with  fur  ? " 

"  No,  lamb's  wool,"  answered  Bert,  with  a  man's 
blundering  frankness. 

Smothering  my  joy,  I  exclaimed  sympathetically, 
"  What  a  shame  !  Those  are  real  old  ladies'  slippers." 

"  Too  bad !  too  bad !  "  came  hypocritically  from 
Tom,  poking  the  fire  to  conceal  his  delight. 

"  Yes,  they  gave  me  a  shock,"  admitted  the  sufferer. 
"  Of  course  I  knew  those  woollen  monstrosities  were 
lying  in  wait  for  me  somewhere  along  the  years,  but 
I  hardly  expected  them  to  bounce  out  just  yet." 

"  Come,  Bert,  walk  up  to  the  confessional !  " 

"  Oh,   I  've   nothing    scary ;    old   age    has   drawn   no 

bead  on   me  " ;  and  he  rattled  off  an  inoffensive  list. 

98 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Revenge  is  sweet,  and  now  his  wife  said  sweetly, 
"  Bert,  you  quite  forgot  to  mention  those  flannel  pa 
jamas  your  sister  sent  you." 

"  Flannel !  "  shrieked  Tom.     "  Outrageous !     Red  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  not  red.  Moonlight  on  the  lake,  stitched 
with  old  gold.*' 

"  But  flannel !  Why,  Bert,  that 's  a  gift  for  an 
octogenarian,  for  lean  and  slippered  age,  — 'sans  teeth, 
sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything." 

"  Go  on,"  wailed  his  victim,  "  pour  vitriol  in  my 
wounds." 

"  No,  my  decrepit  flannel-scourged  brother,  I  can't 
consistently  do  that,  because,  you  see,  we've  some 
woolly  woes  of  our  own  to  bear,"  dragging  them  from 
their  lair  and  waving  them  aloft  as  he  sang,  — 

"  Lift  up  your  eyes,  desponding  freemen, 
Fling  to  the  wind  your  needless  fears  ! " 

When  Mary's  eyes  fell  upon  the  black-and-purple 
disturber  of  the  peace,  her  glee  struck  me  as  little  short 
of  fiendish.  I  hate  to  see  such  malevolence  in  a  woman  ; 
though  she  said  tenderly  enough,  "  What  a  shame, 
Katharine !  I  thought  only  real  old  ladies  wore  such 
things!" 

"  Oh,  you  did  ?  Which  only  shows,  madam,  that 
you  are  living  back  in  the  Oregon  hills ;  no  doubt, 
young  girls  are  now  wearing  these  at  their  coming-out 
parties." 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Meantime  Tom  had  donned  the  scarlet  bib,  and  a 
voice  was  saying,  "  Well,  I  don't  know  how  you  feel, 
but  that  thing  would  be  gall  and  wormwood  to  me." 

"  Think  so,  Bert  ?  It  is  balm  of  Gilead  compared 
with  the  note  that  came  from  the  hand  that  dealt  the 
blow." 

Being  all  in  the  same  boat,  we  grew  rather  jolly 
over  it,  and  began  laughingly  to  picture  Christmases 
to  come,  when  we  should  sit  around  this  fireplace 
surrounded  by  such  heart-rending  tokens  of  affection  as 
bottles  of  liniment,  porous  plasters,  hot-water  bottles, 
stout  canes  with  arched  necks,  spectacle  cases,  red 
flannel  nightcaps,  earmuffs,  and  woollen  scarfs  and  nu 
bias  to  wind  about  our  neuralgic  heads.  Of  course  old 
people  would  n't  be  supposed  to  care  for  works  of 
fiction,  and  they  would  send  us  "  Pilgrim's  Progress " 
in  very  large  type,  "  No  Cross  No  Crown,"  "  Fox's 
Book  of  Martyrs,"  "  Stepping  Heavenward,"  and  simi 
larly  consoling  literature. 

At  dinner-time  the  heavens  grew  black,  the  rain  was 
pouring  in  torrents,  and  Mary  and  I  were  glad  that  we 
had  previously  arranged  for  lighting  the  dining-room. 
With  candles  and  lamps  blazing,  radiating  cheerfulness, 
our  decorations  showed  up  finely.  The  "  Plymouth 
Rock,"  occupying  a  position  of  honor,  tried  hard  to 
look  as  big  as  a  turkey;  we  stood  by  him  loyally, 
praising  his  appearance  and  reviling  turkey.  When 
the  time  for  dessert  arrived  and  the  steaming  plum 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

pudding  was  brought  in,  wreathed  with  real  holly 
taken  from  our  Christmas  boxes,  if  any  longings  for 
mince-pie  were  felt  they  were  bravely  repressed.  That 
pudding  was  good,  if  I  do  say  it ;  and  the  guests  spoke 
up  quite  boldly,  declaring  that  "  Mrs.  Bob  Cratchit " 
never  achieved  a  greater  success.  I  forgot  to  mention 
the  gift  of  a  fruit  cake,  which  was  added  to  our  menu, 
and  a  more  delicious  one  had  never  been  transported 
by  overland  express.  Of  course  we  could  n't  have  ice 
cream  in  an  iceless  land,  but  we  could  and  did  have 
whipped  cream  and  damson  preserves,  which  everybody 
said  "  was  enough  sight  better."  So,  with  a  little 
bravado,  our  Christmas  dinner  passed  off  very  well. 


101 


XI 


I  BELIEVE  it  now,  Nell,  to  be  my  duty  to  give  you 
our  experience  in  the  egg  and  poultry  business. 
You  may  remember  that  the  day  our  cows  came  to 
their  new  home  several  coops  of  chickens  were  brought 
with  them  ;  also  that  this  occurred  soon  after  we  had 
moved  here,  when  we  were  mud-bound  in  these  hills, 
with  nothing  to  eat  but  bacon  and  "  spuds,"  not  having 
seen  an  egg  for  weeks.  Well,  the  following  morning, 
bright  and  early,  those  coops  were  thrown  open,  their 
unhappy  prisoners  fluttering  out  to  freedom  with  a 
mighty  clamor  ;  and  as  they  went  crowing  and  cack 
ling  about  the  old  log  barn,  their  owners  thought  it  the 
sweetest  music  ever  heard.  All  day  long  I  could  think 
of  nothing  but  those  blessed  hens,  and  the  various  ways 
of  cooking  eggs.  For  supper  that  night  I  had  planned 
such  an  omelet  as  the  world  has  scarcely  seen ;  and  for 
the  next  day,  ham  and  eggs  for  breakfast,  custard-pie 
for  dinner,  and  devilled  eggs  for  supper.  That  seemed 
the  longest  day  I  had  ever  known  ;  but  finally  the 
clock  struck  five. 

"  Come,  Tom,  it 's  time  to  gather  the  eggs,"  I  said, 

as  I  handed  him  a  peach  basket  nicely  lined  with  paper. 

"  At  Uncle    Jim's  we  always  gathered  them  in  our 


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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

hats,"  he  murmured  reminiscently,  as  he  marched  off 
with  it.  During  his  absence  I  got  out  the  long-unused 
Dover  eggbeater  and  two  bowls  of  large  size,  put  the 
skillet  on  the  stove,  and  stood  ready  for  the  fray. 
After  some  anxious  waiting,  in  walked  the  gentleman 
with  the  basket  bottom-side  up,  and  never  an  egg  in  it. 
I  stood  in  speechless  amazement,  looking  at  that  empty 
basket,  until  Tom  cried,  - 

"  Give  sorrow  words  ;  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart  and  bids  it  break." 

"  Well,  let  it  break ;  that  would  be  better  than  slow 
starvation  !  " 

"  You  are  disappointed  now,  are  n't  you,  Katharine  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am,  and  I'm  hungry,  and  I  thought  it 
was  a  hen's  business  to  lay  eggs ;  and  as  we  have  forty- 
eight  of  them  —  " 

"  You  thought,"  he  interrupted,  "  that  we  would  get 
forty-eight  eggs,  did  you  ? " 

I  '11  just  tell  you  in  confidence,  Nell,  that  I  had 
thought  of  forty-eight  in  my  most  sanguine  moments ; 
but  now,  under  the  amused  looks  of  my  inquisitor,  I 
snapped  out,  "  Of  course  not ;  I  'm  not  so  much  of  an 
innocent  as  to  expect  to  leap  from  nothing  to  such 
sudden  affluence  ;  but  I  did  look  for  two  dozen  eggs  or 
so,  —  and  it  was  not  at  all  unreasonable,  with  all  that 
mob  of  hens  !  " 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,"  meekly  answered  the  bearer 

103 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

of  the  eggless  basket,  "  I  have  heard  that  hens  never  lay 
just  at  first,  upon  making  a  change  of  location  "  ;  adding 
consolingly,  "  but  I  guess  we  '11  get  a  half-dozen  or  so 
to-morrow." 

Several  more  days  passed,  and  still  there  was  no  of 
fering  from  the  poultry-yard.  I  then  ventured  to  ask, 
"Tom,  do  you  think  you  feed  the  chickens  enough  ?" 

"  Feed  them  enough  ?  They  look  as  if  suffering  from 
goitre ;  their  crops  are  puffed  out  like  toy  balloons." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  feed  them  too  much." 

"  There  you  go  now  !  " 

"  Well,  I  read  to-day  that  hens  should  forage  for  a 
part  of  their  living." 

"  But  if  they  won't  forage,  what  then  ?  These 
chickens  just  stand  on  tiptoe  round  the  granary,  with 
their  eyes  fastened  on  the  door,  and  never  budge  from 
there  until  it  is  time  to  waddle  off  to  bed." 

A  depressing  silence  followed  this  declaration ;  it 
certainly  seemed  a  most  baffling  problem.  After  deep 
thought  the  lady  remarked :  "  I  've  just  been  wondering, 
Tom,  whether  you  really  know  how  to  hunt  hens'  nests." 

"  Good  gracious,  Katharine  !  I  should  think  almost 
any  man  of  average  sense  could,  if  he  would  bring  the 
weight  of  his  intellect  to  bear  upon  it,  hunt  hens'  nests  !  " 

"  You  know  that  I  mean^W  nests  !  " 

"  I  can  find  these  all  right,  having  made  them 
myself." 

"  Oh  !  have  you  made  some  nests  ? " 

104 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Have  I  ?  I  Ve  put  up  so  many  boxes  the  barn  looks 
like  a  post-office." 

"  Yes ;  but  the  article  I  read  to-day  said  that  hens 
liked  secluded  places  for  nests." 

"  All  right ;  I  am  fully  prepared  for  the  cloister-loving 
sisters.  I  've  made  nests  under  the  mangers  and  in  old 
barrels  standing  in  dark  corners,  one  in  an  old  copper 
boiler,  two  choice  ones  in  a  disabled  feed-box ;  in  fact, 
all  that  mortal  man  can  do  has  been  done,  and  now 
'  Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait.' ' 

But  this  persistent  woman  was  n't  quite  so  serene. 
That  night,  when  the  gentleman  was  about  to  go 
through  the  usual  form  of  looking  for  eggs,  she  re 
marked  sagely:  "  It  is  more  than  likely  those  hens  have 
hidden  their  nests ;  the  article  I  read  to-day  says  they 
often  hide  them,  and  I  believe  I  '11  go  with  you  and 
help  search  for  them." 

"  It 's  no  use,  and  it 's  awfully  muddy  ;  but  if  nothing 
else  will  satisfy  you,  come  on ;  only  do  leave  that  con 
founded  basket,  —  I'm  sick  of  the  sight  of  it." 

Permission  being  thus  graciously  tendered,  with  be 
coming  humility  I  followed  my  Chesterfieldian  guide 
into  the  domains  of  chickendom.  Then  the  still-hunt 
began.  We  searched  high  and  low  ;  inside,  outside,  and 
under  the  barn ;  looking  through  all  the  sheds,  in 
clumps  of  ferns,  and  in  the  low  bushes  along  the  fence ; 
peering  into  hollow  logs  and  stumps  as  gravely  and 

anxiously  as  if  searching  for  the  treasures  of  Captain  Kidd. 

105 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Though  our  quest  was  fruitless,  I  learned  that  there 
are  worse  things  in  life  than  hunting  for  eggs  on  an 
Oregon  ranch.  Those  old  logs  and  stumps  mantled  in 
pretty  green  moss  gave  out  an  agreeable  damp  woodsy 
smell ;  the  wet  fir  boughs  exhaled  a  pleasant  perfume ; 
and  just  before  us  rushed  the  noisy  little  brook,  its  clear 
waters  flashing  through  the  tawny  tassels  of  alders  and 
overhanging  willows  decked  with  downy  gray-green 
catkins,  charming  prophecies  of  swift-coming  Spring. 
And  suddenly  we  came  upon  Spring  herself,  in  the  guise 
of  a  little  tree  covered  with  delicate  white  pendent  blos 
soms.  In  almost  breathless  excitement  we  broke  off 
some  of  the  pretty  branches,  the  first  wild  blooms  we  had 
gathered  in  Oregon.  It  was  to  us  then  a  beautiful 
stranger ;  we  have  since  learned  that  it  was  the  Indian 
peach  tree.  In  summer-time  its  branches  are  laden 
with  perfectly  formed  though  very  tiny  peaches ;  they 
look  hard  and  forbidding,  and  lacking  the  courage  of 
the  aborigines,  we  have  not  tasted  them. 

Returning  eggless  to  the  house,  Tom  remarked  re 
signedly,  "  Bert's  folks  are  in  the  same  boat ;  that  's 
some  comfort !  " 

"  No,  they  are  not ;  they  have  had  three  eggs.  Mary 
told  me  so  to-day." 

"  Great  Scott !  I  wonder  Bert  did  n't  fire  off  a 
twenty-four-pounder  after  such  an  event !  " 

The  report  of  those  three  eggs  came  to  Tom  like  the 

explosion  of  a  bomb  in  our  camp.      He  declared  fiercely 

1 06 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

that  something  must  be  done  at  once  to  stimulate  the 
industry  of  our  poultry-yard. 

"Let's  make  them  a  hot  mash,"  I  suggested;  "the 
article  I  read  to-day  advised  it." 

"  Great  earth,  Katharine  !  if  you  will  kindly  refrain 
from  any  further  mention  of  '  that  article,'  I  '11  make  'em 
a  hot  mash  every  hour  in  the  day  and  every  day  in  the 
year." 

"  It 's  just  possible  that  you  would  overdo  it,"  retorted 
the  aggrieved  lady. 

The  next  morning  I  prepared  the  "  hot  mash,"  a 
terrible  mess  of  corn-meal  and  bacon,  and  while  I  was 
deluging  it  with  cayenne  pepper  the  man  of  the  house 
entered,  and  with  that  phenomenal  memory  of  his  re 
marked  that  "  Uncle  Jim's  folks  "  used  black  pepper ; 
so  we  put  in  both.  Then  rummaging  among  various 
condiments,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Paprika  !  That 's  hot 
stuff!  we  '11  give  'em  a  dose.  Mustard,  stimulating  and 
inspiring !  Three  tablespoonfuls  will  be  about  right. 
Ginger !  Now  we  've  struck  it !  —  our  hens  lack 
ginger.  Curry  powder !  What  think  you  of  that, 
Katharine?" 

"  It  may  be  the  one  thing  needful.'* 

"All  right,  in  it  goes!" 

Liberally  salted  and  stirred,  the  dish  was  pronounced 
fit  for  the  gods.  With  the  mixture  in  one  hand,  a  dish 
of  cold  boiled  potatoes  in  the  other,  the  experimenter 

then  advanced  upon  his  victims. 

107 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Returning  after  a  brief  absence,  he  was  asked,  "  How 
did  those  feathered  frauds  like  their  breakfast  ? " 

"  Oh,  fine  ;  they  would  eat  live  coals,  I  guess,  —  all  but 
Mrs.  Gummidge," — a  name  he  had  given  to  a  fussy, 
complaining  old  hen  in  a  rusty  black  gown.  "  I  first  def 
erentially  offered  her  the  potatoes  ;  she  advanced  mourn 
fully,  slowly  drew  up  one  foot,  turned  her  head  sideways, 
glared  at  them  for  one  awful  moment,  and  then  turned 
scornfully  away." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  try  her  with  the  hot  Scotch  ? " 
"  I  did ;  she  took  one  nip,  and  walked  off  gloomily 
among  the  weeds." 

"  Well,  you  see,  Tom,  down  at  Yarmouth  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge  ate  marine  food,  and  she  is  n't  quite  used  to 
mountain  fare  yet.  I  really  think  the  poor  old  thing 
is  homesick." 

A  few  days  later  he  came  in,  shouting  jubilantly, 
"  Hurrah  for  Graham's  celebrated  Poultry  Tonic ! 
Allow  me,  madam,  to  present  you  with  the  first  product 
of  our  poultry -yard." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  an  egg  !    How  lovely  !    Is  n't  it  white  ? " 
"  Yes,  and  uncommon  large,  don't  you  think  ? " 
"  It  is  very  large,  and  such  a  perfect  oval ! " 
"  I  am  inclined  to  think  it 's  a  double-yolker,"   he 
answered,   eying  it  hungrily. 

"  Alas,  Tom  !  the  egg  is  but  one,  and  we  are  two." 
A    momentary    struggle    with    self;     then    he    said 
grandly,  "  You  cook  it  and  eat  it,  Katharine." 


108 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

The  offered  sacrifice  I  regard  as  the  noblest  impulse 
of  Thomas  Graham's  life,  and  I  do  hope  that  his  record 
ing  angel  made  a  note  of  it.  I  was  not  quite  selfish 
enough  to  take  advantage  of  his  magnanimity,  and  yet 
was  so  lacking  of  the  stuff  of  which  heroes  are  made 
that  I  could  not  sit  calmly  by  and  see  him  eat  the  pre 
cious  egg  alone.  So  it  was  regretfully  laid  away  until 
another  should  be  found.  After  three  more  days  of 
suspense,  Tom  came  in,  saying,  "  What  do  you  think 
of  this  insolence?"  handing  me  an  egg  no  larger  than 
a  quail's. 

That  little  egg  instantly  evoked  from  memory  a 
picture  of  the  old  garden  of  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  and  stalking  about  in  it,  "  with  the  dignity  of 
interminable  descent,"  a  grotesque  little  chanticleer, 
followed  by  his  two  little  wives  "  and  the  one  chicken 
of  the  world." 

I  asked  Tom  if  he  thought  it  possible  we  had  become 
the  owners  of  one  of  the  Pyncheon  fowls. 

"  I  don't  remember  them." 

"  Yes,  you  do  ;  the  heirloom  of  the  Pyncheon  fam 
ily,"  —  mentioning  some  of  their  characteristics. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Now  I  know  ;  according  to  tradition, 
they  were  once  the  size  of  turkeys,  but  had  sort  of 
petered  out,  like  the  family,  until  they  became  no 
larger  than  pigeons.  I  fancy  the  three  venerable  an 
cestors  having  died  of  old  age,  the  youngest  and  sole 

survivor  of  that  aristocratic  race,  finding  it  dull  alone  in 

109 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

the  old  garden,  with  perhaps  a  scarcity  of  snails  about 
Maule's  well,  started  out  to  see  the  world,  and  has  been 
led  by  kindly  fate  to  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs, 
and  that  we  now  own  that  remarkable  chicken,  *  that 
looked  small  enough  to  still  be  in  the  egg,  and  at  the 
same  time  sufficiently  old,  withered,  wizened,  and  ex 
perienced  to  have  been  the  founder  of  an  antiquated 


race/ 


We  were  so  entertained  by  this  notion  that  our  dis 
appointment  was  half  forgotten,  though  Tom  did  say, 
"  The  eggs  of  those  ancient  fowls  were  famous  for  rare 
delicacy  of  flavor  ;  and  you  might  cook  the  two  to-night, 
if  in  the  flavor  of  the  one  you  could  find  compensation 
for  the  size  of  the  other." 

"  Which  I  could  n't,  so  we  '11  just  bide  a  wee." 

The  very  next  day  our  impatience  was  rewarded  by 
another  egg  of  normal  size.  We  ate  the  two  with 
cannibalistic  ferocity,  and  looked  longingly  at  the  shells. 

Being  a  truthful  chronicler,  I  cannot  say  that  after  this 
the  eggs  poured  in  in  great  abundance.  That  was  our 
first  experience  of  owning  chickens,  and  also  our  first 
experience  of  a  scarcity  of  eggs.  Before  embarking 
upon  this  enterprise,  while  gloating  over  the  pages  of 
poultry  catalogues,  we  had  visions  —  at  least  I  had  — 
of  sending  baskets,  and  even  tubs,  of  eggs  to  the  market. 
Alas  for  human  hopes,  even  in  the  magical  land  of 
Oregon ! 


no 


XII 


MY  recent  valuable  experience  with  poultry  hav 
ing  taught  me  how  to  wrestle  successfully 
with  an  egg  famine,  I  next  proceeded  to 
the  more  complex  and  at  the  same  time  more  interest 
ing  problems  of  hatching  and  raising  young  chickens. 
After  our  appetite  for  eggs  had  been  appeased,  it  seemed 
high  time  that  some  of  those  hens  should  be  getting 
down  to  business  in  another  fashion.  It  was  late  in  the 
season  ;  the  early  Spring  flowers  had  bloomed  and 
faded ;  orchard  trees  were  blossoming,  birds  singing  and 
nest-building  ;  and  here  were  our  feathered  folk,  wander 
ing  over  hill  and  dale,  chasing  yellow  butterflies  and 
young  grasshoppers,  scratching  up  earthworms  and 
garden  seeds  with  cheerful  zeal,  talking  and  gossiping 
among  themselves,  evidently  so  in  love  with  sunshine 
and  freedom  that  not  one  of  them  had  the  slightest 
notion  of  going  into  solitary  confinement  for  three  long, 
stupid  weeks.  It  seemed  just  possible  that  they  be 
longed  to  some  biddies'  club,  were  "  new-era  "  dames, 
and  had  permanently  retired  from  the  hatching  business  ; 
perhaps  they  were  saying  to  each  other,  "  If  these 
carnivorous  people  want  Spring  chickens,  let  them  buy 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

an  incubator  and  hatch  them.  Let  none  look  to  us  for 
early  broilers,  —  we  are  emancipated  females." 

One  day  I  was  out  raking  the  yard  when  Tom, 
coming  up  the  walk,  said :  "  Brace  yourself  for  painful 
news.  This  very  day  two  hens  belonging  to  those 
shameless  Stanhopes  were  set  —  or  sat  —  which  would 
you  say  ? ' 

Two  fowls,  dusting  themselves  under  a  rose-bush  near 
us,  apparently  overheard  this  talk  ;  one  of  them  sprang 
up  and  really  did  seem  to  say,  quite  sharply, 
"What's  that?" 

"  I  said,  madam,"  answered  Tom,  "  that  the  Stan 
hopes  have  two  hens  set ;  and  I  ask,  '  Why  stand  ye 
here  all  the  day  idle  ? '  You  are  a  Plymouth  dame, 
and  should  have  the  Plymouth  conscience." 

This  speech  aroused  the  ire  of  the  recumbent  Susan 
Nipper,  who  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  began  a  furious 
scratching,  indignantly  hurling  dead  leaves  and  gravel 
toward  the  speaker,  who  said  in  retaliation,  "  As  for 
you,  Mistress  Nipper,  the  guillotine  will  get  you  if  you 
don't  watch  out !  " 

Whether  or  not  our  hens  were  influenced  by  this 
talk  will  probably  never  be  definitely  known,  but  a 
couple  of  weeks  later  the  sitting  craze  broke  out  among 
them,  raging  as  fiercely  as  the  Egyptian  plague.  Cluck 
ing  hens  were  everywhere,  some  sitting  in  the  most 
ludicrous  places,  others  in  their  proper  boxes,  often  two 
and  sometimes  even  three  on  the  same  nest.  The 


I  12 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

non-sitters  persisted  in  depositing  their  eggs  with  the  sit 
ters,  which  resulted  in  noisy  vituperations,  with  scratch- 
ings  from  sharp  claws  and  jabbings  from  vicious  beaks. 
At  this  the  chanticleers,  under  pretence  of  stilling  the 
tempest,  but  secretly  glad  of  the  racket  and  of  the 
chance  to  show  off  their  oratorical  gifts,  would  begin 
a  terrific  harangue,  which  often  terminated  in  a  combat 
between  themselves.  The  tumult  and  confusion  were 
like  a  madhouse. 

Meanwhile  the  demand  for  eggs  grew  strenuous. 
We  could  not  get  half  enough  to  supply  the  emergency 
call.  Everywhere  were  hens  sitting  on  nothing.  One 
in  the  woodhouse,  with  imbecile  credulity,  was  placidly 
brooding  a  broken  doorknob.  I  have  often  heard  the 
remark,  "  No  more  sense  than  a  sitting  hen  "  ;  now  I 
see  the  force  of  it.  Out  of  pity  for  their  needs,  I 
urged  Tom  to  "  take  to  the  hills  "  for  supplies.  Busy 
with  other  work,  he  was  not  eager  for  such  an  outing. 

"  But,  Tom,"  I  insisted,  "  my  prophetic  soul  warns 
me  that  this  is  the  tide  in  our  affairs,  which  taken  at 
the  flood  will  lead  on  to  fortune." 

"  And  my  prophetic  soul  warns  me  that  you  are  a 
false  Cassandra  and  a  persistent  one  ;  but  if  you  will 
bring  me  that  detestable  basket,  I  '11  go  and  see  what 
I  can  do." 

Soon  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  jog  away  on 
his  quiet  old  Rozinante,  in  quest  of  the  golden  nest- 
eggs  of  our  future  fortune.  Returning  about  dark  with 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

a  full  basket,  obtained  with  difficulty  from  various 
sources,  he  hastened  to  visit  the  home  of  each  feathered 
recluse  and  furnish  it  with  supplies ;  after  which  this 
good  Samaritan  sank  in  exhaustion  upon  a  convenient 
log,  and,  fanning  himself  with  his  hat,  declared  that  he 
could  have  passed  through  the  horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution  with  less  physical  and  mental  wear  and  tear 
than  he  had  suffered  with  this  siege  of  "  settin'  hens." 

I  sometimes  think  Thomas  is  given  to  exaggeration, 
especially  when  fatigued. 

This  was  only  the  beginning  of  trouble.  Two  ob 
stinate  hens  were  holding  the  fort  in  one  barrel;  neither 
would  give  up.  With  great  sagacity,  as  I  thought,  I 
advised  putting  another  barrel  there  with  a  nest  in  it, 
and  the  removal  of  Miss  Flite  thereto.  "  You  know 
her  brain  is  a  little  muddled,"  I  added,  "  and  she  won't 
know  one  barrel  from  the  other." 

"Don't  fool  yourself!"  was  the  ominous  reply,  as 
my  plans  were  being  executed. 

The  next  morning  he  came  in,  saying,  "  Just  as  I 
expected  !  both  those  hens  are  again  on  the  same  nest." 

After  due  deliberation,  the  oracle  thought  it  quite 
probable  that  Miss  Flite  was  the  original  owner  of  the 
nest,  and  was  holding  it  by  right  of  discovery. 

"  Why  not  try  Mrs.  Pardiggle  on  the  others  ? ' 

"  It 's  no  use,  she  won't  stay  ;  but  I  '11  chuck  her  in." 

And  he  was  right ;  she  would  have  none  of  it,  but 

flounced  out  in  high  dudgeon  as  often  as  put  in.      Tom 

114 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

then  fell  back  on  "  common  sense  "  and  his  mythical  ex 
perience  at  "  Uncle  Jim's,"  placing  a  partition  in  the 
barrel  with  a  nest  on  each  side  of  it,  —  an  arrangement 
which  seemed  satisfactory  to  both  parties.  All  went 
well  for  about  a  week,  when  it  was  found  that  the 
straw  had  sunk  below  the  partition,  and,  the  avoirdupois 
of  Mrs.  Pardiggle  being  the  greater,  the  eggs  had  all 
rolled  in  to  her  nest.  She  was  sitting  on  twenty-six, 
while  poor  Miss  Flite  had  none ;  but  as  the  latter 
seemed  blissfully  unconscious  of  any  deficit,  while  the 
former,  owing  to  her  voluminous  foliage,  could  easily 
cover  all  the  eggs,  we  thought  it  best  to  leave  their 
tranquillity  undisturbed. 

Thirteen  chickens  were  the  result  of  this  cooperative 
incubation.  Tom  happened  to  be  at  the  barn  when  the 
triumphant  Pardiggle,  with  loud  maternal  duckings, 
sailed  out  of  it  with  the  entire  brood  of  fledglings  at 
her  heels.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  light  suddenly 
shone  in  upon  the  befogged  intellect  of  Miss  Flite ;  for, 
screaming  maniacally,  she  dashed  from  her  compart 
ment  and  flew  into  the  midst  of  the  brood,  making 
frantic  efforts  to  secure  a  fair  division  of  the  spoils. 

"  I  hope  you  gave  her  some  of  them,"  I  said  to  Tom 
when  he  had  finished  his  narration. 

"  Yes,  six  ;  though  feeling  that  I  was  foolishly  senti 
mental  in  doing  it." 

"  No,  Tom,  it  was  right  and  just, —  a  merited  reward 
for  twenty-one  days  of  inefficient  faithfulness." 


I  am  grieved  to  relate  that  Mrs.  P.,  with  unscrupu 
lous  pertinacity,  through  bribes  and  blandishments  lured 
all  those  chickens  back  except  two,  which  Miss  Flite 
continued  "  to  have  and  to  hold  "  until  they  grew  into 
beautiful  young  pullethood. 

If  it  surprises  you  that  our  mania  for  names  is  carried 
into  poultrydom,  just  observe  fowls  closely  for  a  time, 
and  you  will  discover  that  not  only  are  they  possessed 
of  marked  individuality,  but  also  of  many  of  the  char 
acteristics  of  people  you  have  known.  For  instance,  a 
dapper  glossy-black  hen  had  a  topknot  like  a  high  silk 
hat,  and  grotesquely  long  wing  feathers  resembling  a 
frock  coat,  which  gave  her  such  a  look  of  masquerading 
in  male  attire  that  "  Dr.  Mary  Walker "  seemed  the 
only  possible  name  for  her.  "  The  Doctor "  is  an 
impulsive,  self-willed  creature.  Observing  her  friends 
going,  one  by  one,  "  into  the  silence,"  she  apparently 
reasoned  that  the  social  whirl  was  over,  that  it  would 
probably  be  dull  in  the  yard  for  a  time,  and  so  con 
cluded  to  go  into  the  sitting  business  herself.  Look 
ing  the  quarters  over,  she  found  a  desirable  flat  ;  and 
though  the  rooms  were  all  taken,  she  arrogantly  ousted 
a  timid  dark-complexioned  tenant  of  Spanish  descent, 
taking  immediate  possession  of  her  home,  her  goods  and 
chattels.  The  evicted  one  hung  about  her  old  home, 
lamenting  bitterly ;  and  though  frequent  efforts  were 
made  to  reinstate  her,  all  were  futile.  No  matter  how 

often  or  how  violent  "The  Doctor's"  removal,  an  hour 

116 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

later  she  would  be  found  back  in  the  same  place.  Losing 
patience  at  last,  Tom  said  in  disgust :  "  Well,  stay  there, 
then,  you  confounded  old  trespasser  !  You  look  ridicu 
lous  enough,  perched  up  there,  with  your  hat  on  and  your 
coat-tails  hanging  over  that  box.  You  have  just  taken 
this  up  as  a  fad,  and  you  '11  mighty  soon  be  sick  of  it." 

If  "  The  Doctor  "  heard,  she  made  no  sign,  but  con 
tinued  to  gaze  steadfastly  toward  the  Pacific  Ocean, 
and  never  turned  a  feather.  Having  won  the  battle, 
she  settled  down  to  business  in  a  resolute  way ;  and  we 
thought  that  perhaps,  after  all,  she  was  n't  so  flighty 
as  she  looked. 

A  week  later  Tom  said,  "  You  can't  guess  whom 
I  saw  up  in  the  woods  to-day." 

"Robin  Hood?" 

"  No." 

"  Friar  Tuck  ? " 

"  No  ;  one  more  guess  and  you  're  out." 

After  deep  thought  I  hazarded,  "  Countess  Irma  and 
her  little  wood-carver." 

"Oh,  you're  away  off!      It  was  Dr.  Mary  Walker." 

"  Good  gracious !  What  was  she  doing  away  up 
there?" 

"  Sauntering  along  the  brook,  with  a  gay  bevy  of 
friends,  picking  up  pebbles  and  grasses,  seemingly  quite 
care-free  and  joyous." 

After  this  she  was  seen  every  day  stalking  over  the 

fields.      Great    was  our    surprise    when    we   found    she 

117 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

really  had  hatched  seven  chickens.  But  having  hatched 
them,  she  apparently  did  n't  want  them,  or  know  what 
to  do  with  them.  She  just  stood  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
coop  and  eyed  them  gloomily,  making  no  effort  to  feed, 
amuse,  or  instruct  them.  She  evidently  never  told  them 
a  word  about  hawks,  and  the  very  first  day  they  were 
allowed  to  go  out  for  exercise  two  were  carried  off,  and 
the  next  day  another  ;"the  following  morning  she  came 
straight  to  the  house  with  the  remaining  four,  threw 
them  on  my  hands,  walked  off  among  the  tall  ferns,  and 
never  came  back  to  them.  The  little  dew-bedraggled 
things  stood  in  a  shivering  huddle,  peeping  for  their 
mother,  until  my  nerves  could  no  longer  endure  it.  I 
brought  them  in,  fed,  and  wrapped  them  up  warmly ; 
but  still  came  those  anxious  cries,  shrill  and  incessant. 
Then  I  remembered  that  Thoreau  says,  "  Little  chickens 
taken  from  the  hen  and  put  in  a  basket  of  cotton  will 
often  peep  till  they  die ;  but  if  you  will  put  in  a  book, 
or  anything  heavy,  which  will  press  down  the  cotton 
and  feel  like  the  hen,  they  will  go  to  sleep  directly." 
Looking  around  for  a  weight  that  would  "  feel  like  the 
hen,"  an  inspiration  seized  me.  I  took  a  fluffy  feather 
duster,  warmed  it  slightly,  and  placed  it  over  them,  and 
was  instantly  rewarded  by  hearing  a  soft,  gentle  twitter 
ing,  — "  the  low  beginnings  of  content,"  which  soon 
ended  in  perfect  quiet.  In  the  hush  that  followed,  I 
blessed  the  "  Recluse  of  Walden  "  for  the  happy  hint 
which  had  floated  to  me  across  the  years. 

118 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

After  that,  whenever  an  ailing  chicken  was  brought 
to  me  for  treatment,  I  usually  clapped  the  duster  over 
it  and  let  nature  take  its  course.  Sometimes,  it  is  true, 
when  I  lifted  the  duster  to  take  a  look  at  the  patient, 
the  patient  was  dead ;  but  then  it  was  quiet,  and  that 's 
something.  I  feel  a  great  pride  in  being  the  discoverer 
of  the  feather-duster  mother,  and  am  quite  sure  that  no 
other  poultry  preserve  in  the  United  States  has  as  yet 
realized  its  possibilities. 

That  evening  I  advised  Tom  to  look  around  for  "  Dr. 
Mary  Walker,"  as  I  feared  she  had  met  with  some  mis 
hap.  Returning  later,  he  said :  "  Your  fears  were 
groundless.  When  I  closed  the  door  of  the  chicken- 
house,  I  glanced  over  the  inmates,  and,  lo  and  behold, 
in  the  front  row  of  the  dress  circle  sat  her  Majesty 
4  wrapped  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  originality.'  She 
seemed  quite  at  peace  with  herself  and  the  world.  If 
she  had  been  on  the  ground  floor,  I  believe  I  would 
have  slapped  her." 

It  proved  to  be  a  clear  case  of  desertion ;  finding  the 
duties  of  motherhood  irksome,  she  had  shaken  them  off, 
leaving  her  children  to  me  to  bring  up,  as  Mrs.  Joe 
Gargery  brought  up  Pip,  "  by  hand." 


119 


XIII 

ABOUT  the  time  our  poultry  colony  was  fairly 
established  in  the  "  settin'  "  business,  a  smiling 
little  sheep-herder    of  the   hills  handed  me   a 
note  from  Mary.      It  was  certainly  unique,  —  a  sheet  of 
pale  gray  note-paper  daintily  folded,  and  pinned  together 
by   a    white  feather    crossing  it   diagonally.     Fastened 
near  the  top  of  the  inside  page  was  a  picture  of  a  row 
of  cunning  little  chickens  just  emerging  from  the  shell, 
cut  perhaps  from  some  advertisement ;  and  just  beneath 
the  following  poetic  outburst :  — 

"To  the  Hermitage  hasten  to  tea, 

And  delay  not  to  fix  ; 
You  're  wanted  just  for  to  see 
Our  brand-new  chicks." 

"  How  humiliating,  with  ours  still  in  the  shell !  " 
said  Tom.  "  We  started  neck  and  neck  in  this  race,  and 
they  beat  us  with  eggs,  and  now  come  under  the  wire 
two  weeks  ahead  with  young  chickens.  No  wonder 
they  have  *  dropped  into  poetry,'  —  though  that  second 
line  does  seem  a  bit  superfluous,  don't  you  think  ? " 

"  Yes ;  they  must  have  needed  a  rhyme  for  '  chicks,' 
as  they  well  know  that  to  '  fix '  is  with  us  a  lost  art." 

120 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Thank  heaven  it  is  !  "  fervently  responded  the  gen 
tleman,  turning  down  the  hem  of  his  overalls  as  a 
slight  concession  to  the  usages  of  polite  society.  The 
housekeeper,  noting  the  half-pint  of  oats  which  rolled 
out  on  the  floor,  was  calmly  ignored,  as  in  his  best 
circus  tones  he  announced  himself  ready  "  for  the  great, 
free,  moral,  and  spectacular  exhibition  of  the  recently 
incubated."  A  half-hour  later,  in  comfortable  negligee ', 
we  were  seated  at  the  social  board  of  our  successful 
competitors  in  the  poultry  art. 

What  topics,  think  you,  are  discussed  "  over  the  tea 
cups  "  in  the  hills  ?  Dinner-parties,  luncheons,  recep 
tions,  last  night's  drama  ?  Not  at  all ;  nothing  so  giddy 
as  that.  Nor  do  we  discourse  of  art,  music,  literature, 
and  such  hackneyed  themes.  No ;  the  agricultural 
mind  soars  not  so  far  above  the  soil.  The  flow  of  soul 
usually  begins  with  chickens  and  eggs ;  the  subject  of 
butter  is  then  tactfully  brought  forward,  which  naturally 
suggests  cows ;  cows  suggesting  pasture,  it  is  then  but 
a  step  to  crops  in  general  and  "  vetch "  in  particular. 
Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead  that  he  does  not 
expatiate  upon  the  wonderful  properties  of  "  vetch  "  ? 
If  such  there  be,  he  is  not  a  resident  of  the  hill-country. 
Until  we  came  here,  I  had  never  heard  the  word 
spoken ;  and  now  these  new  landed  proprietors  talk  of 
it  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

On  the  evening  of  which  I  write,  the  talk  began,  as 
usual,  with  fowls,  dwelling  chiefly  upon  the  idiosyncrasies 


121 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

of  the  sitting  hen.  We  spoke  of  her  illogical  per 
sistence  and  her  general  absurdities.  Especially  did 
we  deplore  her  combativeness,  Bert  holding  up  a  pair  of 
battle-scarred  hands  as  proof  that  his  recent  triumphs  had 
not  been  wholly  free  from  sanguinary  features.  Pres 
ently  he  went  out  and  gathered  a  hatful  of  his  "  brand- 
new  chicks,"  — fluffy,  velvety  little  balls  of  yellow  and 
black,  soft  grays,  and  creamy  browns.  The  exhibitor 
remarked  boastfully :  "  This  is  only  a  small  line  of 
samples.  I  have  in  stock  twenty-five  of  these  valuable 
birds." 

"  And  they  are  all  right  for  a  starter,"  said  Tom, 
patronizingly,  "  but  if  you  will  drop  in  at  the  Pointed 
Fir  Hatchery  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  we  will  show  you 
about  twenty-five  hundred  of  them." 

I  grieve  to  note  the  habit  of  exaggeration  growing 
upon  Thomas.  Possibly  two  hundred  were  hatched, 
but  to  raise  them  after  hatching,  —  ay,  there 's  the 
rub.  Watchful  sparrow-hawks  swooped  down  upon 
them  by  day  ;  at  night  bloodthirsty  prowlers  of  the 
forest  crept  stealthily  forth  to  claim  their  share;  of 
the  survivors,  many  suffered  from  disease,  not  only  the 
newly  fledged,  but  quite  a  number  of  the  older  ones, 
which  were  what  Tom  called  a  lot  of  "  scrubs."  These 
were  bought,  during  the  rainy  season,  of  accessible  and 
accommodating  ranchmen,  who  naturally  did  not  part 
with  their  best. 

Finding  Tom  one  day  gravely  stirring  some  sort  of 

122 


Copyright,  Kiser  Bros.,  Portland,  Ore. 

BULL    RUN    RIVER 
"The  blue  stream  roars  in  the  vale"  (page  94) 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

mixture  on  the  stove,  I  asked,  "  What  in  the  world  is 

that  ? " 

"  This,  madame,  is  lard  and  cayenne  pepper,  —  a  dose 

designed  for  a  sick  hen." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is  sick  ? " 

"  If  you  saw  a  hen  moping  around,  humped  up  like 
this,  and  catching  her  breath  so,"  — graphically  illustrat 
ing, —  "you  would  conclude  that  she  was  n't  enjoying 
the  best  of  health,  would  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  'd  think  she  had  the  blues,  at  least.  What  does 
ail  her?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Who  suggested  that  mixture  ?  " 

"  This  mixture  was  used  with  unparalleled  success  at 
my  uncle  Jim's." 

"  Oh  !     As  a  remedy  for  what  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  so  many  questions.  I  don't  know  what 
it  was  given  for,  and  I  don't  care ;  it 's  the  only 
chicken  remedy  I  wot  of,  and  when  one  of  ours  seems 
indisposed  she  's  going  to  get  a  dose  of  it." 

With  this  defiant  declaration  the  gentleman  went  out 
to  visit  his  patient,  while  I  looked  up  a  bulletin  on  Poul 
try  from  our  Agricultural  College.  I  was  appalled  to 
learn  of  the  diseases  chicken  flesh  is  heir  to.  It  seemed 
that  if  we  succeeded  in  saving  even  one,  it  would  be 
as  a  brand  snatched  from  the  burning.  In  my  pursuit 
of  information  I  had  just  stumbled  upon  a  poser  as  the 
doctor  returned. 

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LETTERS   FROM   AN   OREGON    RANCH 

"  Tom,  has  a  hen  a  nose  ?" 

"  Heavens,  Katharine  !  how  should  I  know  ?  Not  a 
noticeable  one,  I  guess ;  at  least,  not  one  that  she  can 
turn  up.  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  this  book  speaks  of  a  hen's  nostrils,  which 
implies  a  nose,  don't  you  think  ?  It  says  sometimes  a 
slight  incrustation  forms  over  them,  which  should  be 
gently  removed  by  their  caretaker." 

"Yes, —  well,  I  can  tell  you  right  now  that  it  will 
be  an  exceedingly  frigid  day  when  this  caretaker  gently 


removes  it.' 


Oh,  it  is  so  wearing,  this  trying  to  instil  scientific 
knowledge  into  the  mind  of  one  who  absorbs  so  little  ! 
Sustained,  however,  by  an  earnest  desire  for  his  en 
lightenment,  I  began  again  timidly,  — 

"  If  this  patient  of  yours  should  happen  to  be  suffer 
ing  from  lung  trouble,  you  should  give  her  a  sooth 
ing  drink." 

"  Soothing  fiddlesticks  !  ' 

"  I  thought  you  approved  of  the  teachings  of  the 
Agricultural  College  ? " 

"  Well,  is  n't  warm  melted  lard  a  soothing  drink  ? " 

"  I  have  never  tried  it  as  a  beverage,  but  with 
cayenne  pepper  added,  it  might,  I  should  think, 
excoriate  even  the  well-seasoned  throat  of  the  terrible 
Mrs.  Quilp.  Did  n't  it  strangle  her  ? " 

"  It  did,  Katharine ;  but  it  also  aroused  her  from  her 

apathy,  —  and  that  is  a  point  gained." 

124 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

To  my  surprise,  after  taking  a  few  doses  that  fowl 
really  did  regain  her  health  and  spirits.  During  the 
summer  the  invigorating  cordial  was  frequently  adminis 
tered,  with  varying  results.  Patients  with  strong  con 
stitutions  survived  it,  others  died ;  but  the  doctor's  faith 
in  the  efficacy  of  the  remedy  remained  unshaken. 

He  had  several  baffling  cases ;  for  instance,  there  was 
a  hen  that  looked  perfectly  well  and  ate  ravenously. 
When  wheat  was  thrown  out,  she  would  start  for  it  on 
the  run,  but  would  soon  begin  to  wobble  like  an  ex 
hausted  top,  and  would  fall  over,  perhaps  several  times, 
before  reaching  the  goal,  often  landing  there  on  her 
back,  when  she  would  turn  on  her  side  and  gobble  wheat 
as  deftly  as  the  well  ones.  She  was  soon  placed  in  a 
private  sanitarium,  and  her  meals  were  carried  to  her 
until  death  came  to  her  relief.  I  pronounced  this  case 
epilepsy  ;  though  Tom  said  it  was  a  clear  case  of  loco- 
motor  ataxia,  and  that  not  even  the  wise  ones  of  the 
Agricultural  College  could  have  saved  her. 

We  had  one  frightfully  small  chicken  with  an  abnor 
mally  large  head  ;  it  could  walk  a  very  little  in  a  stiff 
and  awful  way,  but  could  n't  stand  at  all  and  maintain 
its  equilibrium,  except  with  its  feet  very  wide  apart  and 
its  bill  poked  in  the  ground  as  an  extra  brace.  In  this 
case  the  physician's  diagnosis  was  "  dropsy  of  the 
brain."  It  did  look  like  it.  As  the  bantling  could  n't 
keep  within  even  hailing  distance  of  its  mother,  it  was 

brought  to  the  house  for  the  rest-cure.     Here  it  was 

125 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

never  at  ease  unless  it  could  find  a  crevice  of  the 
kitchen  floor  and  insert  its  bill  in  it ;  then  with  closed 
eyes  it  would  stand  very  still  for  many  minutes,  a  pain 
ful  and  gruesome-looking  object.  Very  often  the  pro 
fessional  gaze  turned  thoughtfully  toward  it,  and  I  well 
knew  the  gentleman  was  wondering  whether  or  not  the 
malady  could  be  reached  by  lard  and  pepper.  I  was 
glad  when  kindly  death  interposed  and  saved  the  poor 
little  sufferer  from  Graham's  Great  Elixir. 

During  the  summer  Tom,  not  being  quite  satisfied 
with  "  scrubs,"  bought  some  better  chickens.  Among 
them  was  one  which  caused  him  great  trouble  for  a 
time.  It  was  a  fine  thoroughbred  Plymouth  Rock, 
called  by  his  former  owner  "  Captain  Jack.'*  The 
Captain,  for  some  reason  known  only  to  himself,  ob 
jected  to  the  early  hours  kept  by  our  mountain  flock, 
and  firmly  refused  to  enter  the  dormitory  with  them  at 
sunset.  It  may  have  been  that  he  had  an  affair  of 
honor  arranged  with  some  hostile  member  of  an  outlying 
camp ;  or,  being  town-bred,  he  may  have  been  wait 
ing  for  curfew  to  ring.  Of  course  we  could  only  guess 
at  the  motives  which  prompted  his  erratic  conduct. 
But  we  did  know  that  if  he  were  left  at  large  he  would 
surely  fall  a  victim  to  some  lynx-eyed  assassin  of  the 
hills ;  consequently  Tom  had  to  stay  with  him  until  he 
voluntarily  walked  into  the  chicken-house. 

"  Let  him  go  in  when  he  gets  ready,"  I  suggested, 

"  and  close  the  door  later." 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  He  would  never  get  ready,  Katharine ;  he  would 
hide  away  in  some  tree,  and  that  would  be  the  end  of 
his  earthly  career.  You  must  not  forget  that  he  cost 
me  three  big  silver  dollars." 

It  was  a  solemn  and  impressive  spectacle  as  seen  in 
the  gloaming, — those  two  weird  shadowy  figures  moving 
slowly  and  silently  through  the  tall  weeds  and  dog's- 
fennel  ;  the  Captain  a  few  paces  in  advance,  showing  no 
perturbation,  though  well  he  knew  "  a  frightful  fiend 
did  close  behind  him  tread."  Occasionally  he  would 
pause  to  snatch  a  belated  bug  or  an  unwary  grasshopper, 
or  with  assumed  nonchalance  stop  before  some  little 
bush,  scratch  about  its  roots,  then  stand  on  tiptoe,  and 
examine  each  leaf  as  carefully  as  if  he  were  engaged  in 
the  study  of  botany.  All  this  time  Tom,  with  the 
same  affected  carelessness,  would  be  sauntering  near, 
pausing  as  the  Captain  paused,  just  as  if  he  were  taking 
an  evening  stroll  and  had  by  the  merest  accident  fallen 
in  with  the  military  gentleman,  but  always  keeping  on 
the  off-side  and  unobtrusively  guiding  the  wanderer's 
steps  bedward.  When  at  last  the  wayward  one  entered 
the  building,  the  door  would  bang  behind  him  with 
such  force  as  to  shake  the  whole  crazy  structure. 
These  evening  rambles  were  continued  for  a  couple  of 
weeks,  when  suddenly  it  seemed  to  dawn  upon  the 
Captain  that  sunset  was  practically  the  sounding  of 
"  taps  "  in  the  hills,  whereupon  he  turned  in  with  the 

others,  and  g^ve  his  guardian  no  further  trouble. 

127 


XIV 

THIS,  Nell,  is  the  loveliest  of  May  mornings,  the 
sky  as  blue  as  a  robin's  egg. 

"  There 's  a  rustle  of  leaves  in  the  tall  forest  trees, 
And  the  brook  sings  a  lullaby  sweet." 

For  two  hours  I  have  been  at  work  in  the  garden, 
weeding  onion,  radish,  and  lettuce  beds.  Though  this 
sounds  prosaic,  it  was  really  idyllic.  I  had  started  upon 
my  errand  with  but  little  enthusiasm,  being  tired  from 
churning,  —  eighty  revolutions  per  minute,  —  but  after 
my  first  glimpse  of  the  glory  of  the  orchard  I  could  n't 
hurry  fast  enough  to  that  bower  of  pink-and-white 
beauty  lying  on  the  sunlit  hillside  in  all  the  dewy 
freshness  of  the  early  morning.  As  I  reached  it,  it 
seemed  to  me  nothing  in  the  wide  world  could  be 
sweeter.  The  air,  so  soft  and  pure,  was  filled  with  the 
delicate  perfume  of  pear,  plum,  and  apple  blossoms; 
shadow  and  shine  rippled  through  the  tall  grass ;  sway 
ing  upon  and  flashing  through  the  flowery  branches 
were  plump  robins  with  satiny  vests  of  orange,  the 
bluest  of  bluejays  with  drum-major  topknots,  and  a 
shining  host  of  wild  canaries.  A  big  pear  tree  seemed 

alive  and  fluttering  with  these  canaries,  — little  shimmer- 

128 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

ing  knots  of  gold  among  the  white  blossoms.  They 
came  here  in  swarms  last  Spring,  though  earlier,  when 
the  peach  trees  were  blooming.  I  remember  that  Tom 
called  me  to  come  out  and  see  a  "  yellow  peach  tree." 
He  thought  there  were  a  hundred  or  more  birds  on  one 
tree. 

Such  a  flurry,  flutter,  and  twitter  as  there  was  up 
among  those  pink  blossoms  !  Such  a  multitude  of  little 
yellow  birds  we  had  never  before  seen.  We  were  as 
excited  as  two  children.  They  stayed  but  a  day  or  two 
in  such  numbers,  though  many  remained  throughout 
the  Summer. 

I  suppose  this  is  another  party  of  tourists  stopping 
over  with  us  to-day,  thinking  they  have  reached  Para 
dise  ;  and  it  is  little  wonder,  for  it  is  like  it. 

I  too  longed  to  stay  there  "  and  just  be  glad,"  but 
the  vegetables  were  calling  me  from  below  to  hurry 
along  and  deliver  them  from  the  deadly  snares  of  their 
enemies, — the  coiling  snake-grass,  wire-grass,  smart  weed, 
dog's  fennel,  and  all  their  myriad  foes.  Reluctantly 
leaving  the  flowery  kingdom,  with  glittering  blade  of 
steel  I  walked  down  into  the  valley  of  distress  and  began 
dealing  death  and  destruction  right  and  left.  Yet  even 
as  I  did  it  I  felt  a  kind  of  pity  for  the  innocent  little 
trespassers. 

I  wish  you  could  see  this  dear  old  ranch  garden, —  so 
quiet  and  secluded,  hedged  about  by  green  growing 
wild  things,  like  a  lonely  little  island.  Across  one  side 

o  129 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

is  an  old  paling  fence,  at  least  so  tradition  tells  us,  for 
if  it  still  is  there  it  is  lost  to  sight  and  serves  only  as  a 
support  for  vines  and  brambles.  There  the  blackberry 
trails  its  flowery  sprays,  and  the  wild  gourd  runs  like  a 
creature  alive,  holding  up  its  slender  stems  of  green, 
tipped  with  fragrant  starry  white  blossoms,  such  as  we 
never  saw  until  we  came  to  Oregon.  The  farmers  call 
it  a  pest ;  if  so,  it  is  a  most  bewitching  one.  Here  too 
are  hazel  bushes, — not  like  ours,  but  small  trees  ;  and 
wild  rose  and  salmon  bushes.  The  latter  I  am  quite 
sure  you  have  never  seen.  Their  blossoms  are  beautiful, 
like  pink  hollyhocks  in  miniature.  The  humming-birds 
love  them  ;  two  burnished  beauties  were  hovering  above 
them  when  I  entered  the  garden, —  different  from  any 
we  have  before  seen,  making  the  queerest  roaring 
sounds,  not  unlike  a  wild  animal.  You  won't  believe 
this,  nor  did  I  until  I  had  traced  the  incongruous  sounds 
to  them.  It  seemed  preposterous  to  suppose  such  dainty 
bits  of  iridescence  should  roar  like  that ;  but  they  did, 
for  I  caught  them  in  the  very  act. 

Alders  and  willows  grow  about  my  Eden,  and  wild 
plum  and  crab-apple  trees  are  snowy  with  bloom  and 
faintly  sweet ;  underneath  these  is  a  tangle  of  low 
bushes,  wild-flowers,  tall  weeds,  and  vines.  Through 
this  wall  of  green  came  a  pleasant  sound  of  bubbling 
waters,  gushing  from  the  roots  of  a  group  of  alders  just 
above  me,  a  pure  little  rill  of  it  sliding  down  the  hillside, 
under  bending  briers,  tall  grasses,  and  nodding  rushes. 

130 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Who  would  n't  enjoy  weeding  in  such  a  glorified  nook, 
hearing  the  music  of  rustling  leaves,  falling  waters,  and 
a  chorus  of  bird  voices,  a  "  choir  invisible  "  hidden 
away  in  those  green  temples ! 

In  the  early  morning  the  birds  seem  almost  deliri 
ously  happy,  singing  with  a  "  fine,  careless  rapture,"  as 
if  from  mere  joy  of  living.  In  the  evening  their  notes, 
though  very  sweet,  are  more  subdued  and  plaintive,  just 
hinting  of  unrest.  Is  it  from  weariness  or  is  it  anxiety  ? 
Whatever  the  cause,  it  is  too  elusive  to  be  interpreted 
by  my  dull  senses. 

I  am  ashamed  that  I  know  so  little  about  birds,  not 
even  the  names  of  half  that  we  see  here  ;  and  yet  I 
love  them  beyond  rubies  and  pearls. 

As  I  crouched  there,  working,  and  thinking  of  these 
things,  I  suddenly  heard  a  familiar  bird-voice,  and  look 
ing  up  I  saw  perched  upon  a  curving  willow  wand  a 
little  wood-wren  that  comes  many  times  each  day  to 
the  porch  for  crumbs.  If  I  am  not  in  sight,  he  lights 
on  the  railing  and  calls  persistently  until  I  appear. 
He  has  become  quite  fearless,  hopping  so  near  that  I 
could  reach  him  with  my  hand.  A  most  lovable  bird 
is  little  "  Hop  o'  My  Thumb,"  as  Tom  calls  him. 
He  introduced  himself  to  us  early  last  Winter,  and 
now  we  are  intimate  friends. 

After  a  time  I  found  the  sun  was  shining  down  hot, 
and  I  was  glad  when  the  last  of  the  onions  were  freed 
from  their  tormentors.  They  stood  in  long  straight 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

ranks,  like  little  soldiers,  and  I  think  they  saluted  me 
as  a  conquering  hero.  I  glanced  at  the  parsley  bed,  and 
could  see  the  little  crinkly  newcomers  looking  up 
through  dog's  fennel,  gasping  for  breath ;  but  so  was  I, 
and  hence  had  to  ignore  their  mute  appeal. 

While  I  know  of  no  more  fascinating  work  than 
weeding  a  garden,  the  stooping  position  makes  it  hard. 
If  the  beds  were  only  placed  up  high,  like  counters, 
with  light  rattan  seats  running  round  them,  the  work 
would  be  ideal.  I  '11  have  that  kind  some  day,  when 
my  long-overdue  ship  sails  into  the  harbor.  To  rest 
and  escape  the  heat,  I  recrossed  the  raging  Tiber,  went 
again  up  in  the  orchard,  sat  down  under  an  apple  tree, 
threw  off  my  sunbonnet  and  with  it  "  the  cares  that 
infest  the  day,"  and  gave  myself  up  to  the  spell  of  that 
world  of  bloom  and  beauty. 

"  The  blossoms  drifted  at  my  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  "  ; 

and  softly  now,  in  the  later  morning,  their  notes 
blended  deliciously  with  the  low  murmur  of  leaves, 
rippling  waters,  and  the  faint  tinkling  of  sheep-bells 
down  the  leafy  lane.  The  grass  all  about  me  was 
thickly  studded  with  wild-flowers ;  everywhere  little 
tongues  of  flame  were  darting  up  through  the  green, 
from  some  queer  plant  new  to  me ;  patches  of  tall 
buttercups  were  waving  in  the  sunshine  like  cloth 

of  gold ;  white  honeysuckles  and  purple  and  lavender 

132 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

fleurs-de-lis  were  all  about  me.  Above  them  was  a 
canopy  of  pink  and  white  ;  around  were  the  mighty 
hills  spiked  with  the  eternal  green  of  the  jagged  fir 
trees,  and  over  all  was  the  arching  blue  of  heaven. 

Into  my  heart  stole  that  peace  which  passeth  under 
standing,  with  a  tide  of  thanksgiving  toward  the  all- 
loving  Father,  who  gives  to  his  poor  tired  children  such 
glimpses  of  glory  and  beauty  as  they  travel  the  long 
briery  road  stretching  out  from  life's  dawn  to  life's 
dusk.  Then  I  pitied  all  the  denizens  of  great  cities 
imprisoned  in  brick  and  stone,  so  far  away  from  these 
blessed  hills  of  Oregon,  where  there 's  "  room  to  turn 
round  in,  to  breathe,  and  be  free."  At  such  times  the 
world  seems  remote  and  unreal.  No  sound  from  it 
pierces  our  leafy  barricade.  No  clanging  bells,  no 
whistles,  no  shrieking  engines,  no  brass  bands  nor  throb 
bing  drums,  invade  this  sweet  peacefulness. 

We  grow  almost  conceited,  living  in  this  vast  solitude, 
half  believing  that  we  are  the  only  inhabitants  of  the 
earth,  that  the  machinery  of  the  universe  is  kept  oiled 
and  running  just  for  us  —  until  the  mail  arrives,  some 
times  once  a  week,  but  oftener  once  in  two  weeks  ;  then, 
as  we  unfurl  the  manifold  pages  of  the  metropolitan 
papers  we  learn  that  there  are  others,  —  that  the  classes 
and  the  masses  are  still  going  up  and  down  the  world, 
toiling  and  suffering  and  dying.  I  suppose  that  when 
we  received  a  daily  mail  this  sort  of  thing  came  in 
smaller  doses,  and  we  became  hardened  to  it;  but 

133 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

coming  now  en  masse,  as  it  does,  the  whole  flood  of  it 
poured  upon  us  at  once,  it  is  depressing  and  awful,  the 
gruesome  stories  echoing  sadly  through  our  hearts  even 
in  this  far-off  lotus  land  "in  which  it  seems  always 
afternoon." 


134 


XV 


THIS  is  a  breathlessly  hot  day  in  early  June,  and 
I  am  all  alone  in  the  deep  fir  forest,  the  others 
having  gone  "to  town"  for  supplies,  —  even 
Mary,  who  likes  to  take  an  occasional  peep  over  the 
rim  of  this  big  green  bowl  in  which  we  dwell,  to  see  the 
people  outside,  note  the  style  of  their  hats  and  gowns, 
watch  the  "  cars  come  in,"  hear  the  engines  whistle, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  She  begged  me  to  go, 
but  I,  thinking  of  the  long  dusty  road,  especially 
that  portion  of  it  winding  above  those  dizzy  and  dan 
gerous  canyons,  felt  that  I  would  rather  stay  in  my 
little  old  box-house  under  the  cool  shadows  of  the 
pointed  firs.  Once  in  a  while  I  enjoy  being  quite 
alone  for  a  whole  day.  It  must  be  the  hermit-strain 
in  my  blood,  inherited  from  dead-and-gone  ancestors, 
who  probably  ate  roots  and  herbs,  dressed  in  skins,  and 
lived  in  caves. 

The  travellers  set  out  for  the  giddy  world  just  at  sun 
rise,  and  as  I  stood  at  the  gate  to  see  them  off,  Mary 
looked  at  me  quite  sorrowfully,  and  Tom  said,  "You 
have  a  long  day  before  you,  Katharine ;  what  will  you 
do  when  we  are  gone  ? " 

135 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Do  ?  Nothing  at  all,  sir  ;  I  shall  wander  about  at 
my  own  sweet  will,  — 

'As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean.' 

This  promises  to  be  one  of  the  best  days  of  my  life." 

"  You  '11  not  be  quite  so  gay,  my  lady,  when  night 
swoops  down  on  you  in  this  spook-haunted  woodland." 

"  Night  swoops  up,  not  down,  in  the  hills,  Thomas, 
and  there  are  no  spooks  in  this  enchanted  wilderness." 

"  Good-bye  ! "  Bert  called  out  as  they  started. 
"  Don't  get  desperate  and  hang  yourself  in  a  fir  tree 
while  we  are  away  !  ' 

I  watched  them  driving  down  the  leafy  lane  until  a 
bend  in  the  road  was  reached,  when  Mary  looked  back ; 
then  — 

"  A  hand  like  a  whitewood  blossom 
She  lifted,  and  waved,  and  passed." 

I  can't  help  smiling  at  this  conceit,  for  Mary's  hands 
and  my  own,  after  a  year  and  more  of  ranch  life,  are 
in  texture  and  color  hardly  like  whitewood  blossoms,  to 
say  the  least. 

The  forsaken  house  looked  very  quiet  as  I  turned 
back  to  the  walk  leading  to  the  door.  That  walk 
which  when  we  arrived  here  in  the  cold  drizzle  of  a 
winter  evening  seemed  only  a  narrow  muddy  gulch 
fringed  with  dead  bushes,  surprised  and  gladdened  us, 

136 


LETTERS   FROM   AN   OREGON    RANCH 

when  Spring  came,  by  the  wealth  of  bloom  which 
leaped  to  light  along  its  borders. 

This  is  quite  an  old  ranch,  one  that  has  had  many 
different  owners,  some  of  whom  must  have  been  real 
flower-lovers.  Wherever  they  are  to-day,  I  wish  this 
rose-scented  breeze  might  carry  to  them  our  grateful 
benedictions. 

Of  late  years  the  place  was  often  without  a  tenant. 
At  such  times,  we  are  told,  the  sheep  and  goats  of 
neighboring  ranches  roamed  over  it  at  will,  leaving  de 
struction  in  their  wake ;  that  any  plant  life  survived 
their  ravages  seems  strange,  and  yet  we  were  constantly 
being  surprised  by  some  old-timer  struggling  through 
the  sod.  Bert  made  the  first  discovery,  and  we  all  hur 
ried  to  see  the  circle  of  little  sharp  bayonets  piercing 
the  earth,  which  a  few  weeks  later,  by  their  green  rib 
bons  and  yellow  frowsy  heads,  proclaimed  themselves 
daffodils.  These  gave  us  hope  of  more  to  follow,  and 
after  that  we  fairly  haunted  the  margin  of  that  walk ; 
presently  our  vigilance  was  rewarded  by  seeing  del 
icate  pink  fingers  pushing  aside  the  matted  grass  and 
clover,  in  an  effort  to  gain  the  sunlight  and  startle  new 
comers  by  the  colossal  size  and  beauty  of  the  Oregon 
peony.  Soon  followed  the  tall  queenly  iris,  gowned  in 
white,  yellow,  and  pale  blue ;  then  came  snowballs  and 
lovely  jonquils,  with  the  spicy  clove  pink,  fragrant  with 
memories  of  my  dear  mother's  old-time  flower-garden. 

June  showered  upon  us  the  most  exquisite  roses,  — 

137 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

soft  delicate  pink  ones,  like  a  "  bride  full  of  blushes," 
and  pure  white,  with  the  mossiest  of  buds  and  stems  ; 
big  velvety  crimson  ones,  too,  almost  as  fine  as  jacque 
minots. 

About  this  time  we  began  to  suspect  that  we  had 
unwittingly  become  the  possessors  of  another  Vale  of 
Cashmere,  and  would  not  have  been  greatly  surprised 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  temples,  grottos,  and 
fountains  in  our  estate. 

Though  these  things  did  not  materialize,  there  came 
a  sudden  rush  of  herbs,  —  anise,  dill,  thyme,  summer- 
savory,  and  sweet  basil,  in  company  with  that  venerable 
plant  known  as  "  old  man,"  which  I  am  sure  you  must 
have  met  in  childhood. 

One  day  I  heard  Tom  exclaim,  "  Hello,  my  old-time 
friend  !  I  thought  you  belonged  in  this  clique  ;  I  've 
been  looking  for  you  these  many  days.  Katharine,  did 
you  ever  see  any  *  live  forever  '  ? " 

"  Yes,  plenty  of  it,  —  about  the  time  the  morning 
stars  first  sang  together." 

"  Well,  do  come  and  see  this  !  It  looks  just  as  it  did 
a  hundred  years  ago.  Dear  me  !  how  it  does  bring 
back  my  Summer  at  Uncle  Jim's  !" 

"  Did  they  have  it  there?"  I  inadvertently  asked. 

"  Did  they?  Well,  \  should  say  they  did  !  My  bare 
feet  were  always  hot  with  stone  bruises,  which  my  aunt 
Sarah  poulticed  with  these  cool  pulpy  leaves  ;  sometimes 
she  put  with  them- 

138 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Foreseeing  a  torrent  of  reminiscences,  I  hastily  re 
marked,  "We  don't  need  poultices  now;  but  the  stuff 
looks  nourishing,  —  I  wonder  how  it  would  do  for 
greens  ? " 

This  happened  in  our  starvation  days. 

"  Let 's  try  a  dash  at  it,  Katharine ;  the  Chinese  eat 
plantain,  and  this  looks  a  mighty  sight  more  fattening." 

Our  culinary  works  were  reticent  on  the  subject  of 
"live  forever";  otherwise,  goaded  on  by  hunger,  I 
should  probably  have  stewed  a  little  just  for  sauce. 

Sheltering  this  benefactor  of  bruised  boyish  feet  was 
a  very  bushy  tree,  with  a  curious  leaf,  which  we  watched 
anxiously  until  early  May,  when  it  suddenly  hung  out 
hundreds  of  long  drooping  racemes,  much  like  locust 
blooms,  only  of  bright  canary  color.  Flashing  in  the 
sunlight,  it  was  like  a  shower  of  gold,  and  worth  "  com 
ing  miles  to  see."  We  now  think  it  a  Scotch  laburnum. 

Here,  too,  was  the  wreck  of  a  honeysuckle,  carefully 
staked  about,  hinting  of  something  choice ;  but  the 
omnivorous  Angora  (goat,  not  cat)  had  reached  over  the 
barricade  and  eaten  it  off  almost  to  the  ground.  Tom 
dug  about  its  roots,  enriched  the  soil,  and  encouraged  it 
with  a  trellis,  which  it  gratefully  climbed  and  now 
covers  luxuriantly,  though  it  has  not  yet  seen  fit  to  re 
ward  him  with  a  blossom.  Under  one  of  the  windows 
was  the  remains  of  an  English  ivy ;  given  special  treat 
ment,  to-day  its  dark  glossy  leaves  cover  the  lower  part 
of  the  house  and  peep  inquisitively  in  at  the  window. 

139 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Loitering  along  the  walls,  gathering  roses,  now  bloom 
ing  in  perfection,  all  these  things  seemed  very  old- 
fashioned  and  sweet,  lying  so  quietly  under  the  soft 
shadows  of  the  early  morning.  I  realized  to  the  full 

that  — 

"  There 's  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  Summer, 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer." 

If  there  were  a  price,  an  Oregon  June  in  the  hills  would 
"  come  high,"  I  am  sure,  and  that  would  bar  us  out. 
After  filling  the  rose-bowls,  I  went  to  the  garden  for 
white  carnations  ;  coming  back  through  the  tall  grasses 
of  the  orchard,  I  gathered  many  strange  varieties  of 
the  airy,  fairy  things,  waving  now  in  a  slender  vase  near 
me,  looking  as  fine  and  delicate  as  spun  glass. 

After  the  breakfast  work  was  done,  looking  about  for 
more  worlds  to  conquer,  I  thought  of  the  wild  straw 
berries  ripening  on  the  hillside ;  a  dish  of  them  would 
pleasantly  surprise  the  home-comers,  and  Sheila  would  be 
charmed  by  such  an  excursion.  Sheila  is  our  Scotch 
shepherd-dog,  given  me  a  year  ago  by  a  genuine  dog- 
lover,  a  kind  girl-friend  of  the  hills.  When  she  came 
to  us,  she  was  a  woolly  little  thing,  like  a  soft  fluffy  ball 
of  chenille  ;  now  she  is  a  graceful,  light-footed  creature, 
with  a  small  pointed  head,  and  honest  eyes  of  clear  gray, 
just  matching  her  coat ;  she  looks  the  true-born  patrician, 
and  is  one.  Having  no  dog  friends,  she  has  to  depend 
upon  us  for  society,  and  we  talk  to  her  about  everything, 
and  rather  think  she  understands.  I  said,  "  Sheila, 

140 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

would  you  like  to  go  up  on  Mount  Nebo  ?"  She  was 
on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  eyes  dancing,  plumy  tail  wav 
ing,  as  she  took  the  basket  in  her  white  teeth  and  went 
proudly  cavorting  up  the  hillside.  After  reaching  the 
delectable  land  and  delivering  the  basket  reluctantly, 
she  hurried  away  to  inspect  various  surrounding  mole 
hills  and  gopher-hills,  entertaining,  perhaps,  a  secret 
hope  of  scaring  up  a  "  Chiny,"  all  of  which  was  so 
wildly  exciting  that  she  had  frequently  to  dash  back 
and  poke  her  little  pointed  face  up  in  my  sunbonnet,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "Isn't  this  a  high  old  time  that  we  are 
having  ? " 

The  berries  were  plentiful,  though  very  small.  They 
lie  so  close  to  the  ground  that  Bert  always  speaks  of  dig 
ging  them.  The  filling  of  my  basket  was  a  work  of 
time ;  when  it  was  accomplished,  that  hillside  was  as 
hot  as  a  fiery  furnace.  Gasping  for  breath,  I  hurried  to 
the  shade  of  a  mighty  fir,  —  one  that  Tom  calls  the 
guardian  of  the  ranch,  as  it  stands  not  far  from  the  sum 
mit  of  Mount  Nebo.  It  was  deliciously  cool  there,  and 
as  it  seemed  an  agreeable  place  in  which  to  perform  a 
disagreeable  task,  I  poured  the  berries  out  on  the  grass 
and  began  the  tedious  process  of  stemming  them,  under 
the  watchful  supervision  of  the  gray  huntress,  who, 
wearying  of  the  pursuit  of  the  ever-vanishing  "  Chiny," 
had  come  up  and  thrown  herself  down  beside  me. 

It  was  glorious  away  up  there,  high  above  the  work 
and  worry  of  the  world.  Before  me  was  that  solemn 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

crescent  of  dark  green  hills,  towering  so  high  that  I 
sometimes  think  those  topmost  firs  must  brush  against 
the  walls  of  the  unseen  city.  Half-way  down,  smoke, 
blue  as  the  sea,  curled  up  from  the  invisible  cabin  of  a 
bachelor  woodsman.  "  What  can  the  man  be  cooking 
this  hot  day?"  I  asked  myself.  Far  below  lay  the  quiet 
glen  dotted  with  trees  and  patches  of  waving  grain,  — 
shade  here,  shine  there;  birds  flying  up  and  over,  singing 
as  they  flew.  Near  us  in  the  grass  were  tall  wand-like 
lavender  blossoms,  with  French  pinks  of  many  colors, 
and  the  white  parasols  of  the  wild  parsnip  bobbing 
everywhere;  bees  were  lazily  droning,  and  yellow  but 
terflies  drifting  like  rose  petals  through  the  air. 

"Oh,  Sheila,  isn't  it  beautiful,  —  this  great  round 
earth,  that  swings  in  the  smile  of  God ! "  I  cried  to 
my  companion. 

The  plumy  tail  lashed  the  grass  acquiescently.  "  I 
do  wish  that  you  could  talk,  Sheila,"  I  added. 

Then  the  wistful  gray  eyes  looked  up ;  the  small 
pointed  head  lifted,  tilted  anxiously,  trying  so  hard  to 
understand  that  I  hastened  to  say,  "  Never  mind,  my 
mute  little  Highland  Princess  ;  you  are  faithful  and  true, 
and  far  more  companionable  than  many  who  can  talk." 
Understanding  the  tone  of  approval,  a  hot  little  tongue 
forgivingly  caressed  my  berry-stained  hand. 

So  long  did  we  linger  in  that  cool  retreat  that  I  was 
horrified  to  hear  the  clock  strike  twelve  as  we  entered 

the  house.      "  Too  bad  !     The  half  of  my  lovely  day 

142 


"THE    GUARDIAN    OF    THE    RANCH" 
"  It  stands  not  far  from  the  summit  of  Mount  Nebo  "  (page  141) 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

gone  like  a  tale  that  is  told,"  I  cried  remorsefully. 
Looking  at  the  big  black  range,  I  thought,  "  Allah  be 
praised!  I  don't  have  to  fire  you  up  and  cook  dinner." 
That  alone  was  joy  enough  for  a  whole  day,  —  to  be  able 
to  check  off  one  meal  from  the  1095  of  them  looming 
up  yearly  before  every  servantless  housekeeper.  A  slice 
of  smooth  cool  curd,  with  a  dash  of  nutmeg  and 
powered  sugar,  deluged  with  thick  Jersey  cream,  made 
a  luncheon  good  enough  for  royalty  itself.  My  precious 
berries  I  saved  to  delight  and  refresh  the  wanderers  on 
their  return. 


XVI 

YOU  must  not  think  that  ranch  life  consists  chiefly 
of    trout-fishing    and    Strawberry-picking,    with 
long  intervals   of  rest    under    blossoming  trees. 
Some  friends — judging  from    their   letters  —  seem   to 
have  an  idea  that  living  as  we  do  in  this  out-of-the- 
way  place,  free  from  social  duties,  our  days  are  days  of 
elegant  leisure,  and  life  just  one  long  holiday.     There 
fore,  to  prove  to  you  that  we  are  not  being  "  carried  to 
the  skies  on  flowery  beds  of  ease,"  I  must  tell  you  some 
thing  of  the  "demnition  grind"  of  this  new  life. 

Be  it  known,  then,  that  here  it  is  impossible  to  obtain 
house-help  even  for  a  day,  —  the  few  women  living  in 
the  hills  having  more  work  in  their  own  homes  than 
they  are  able  to  do. 

We  were  warned  of  this  before  coming  up  here, 
and  were  advised  to  be  sure  to  bring  with  us  a  wash 
ing-machine.  I  well  remember  that  dreary  purchase ! 
Outside  there  was  a  drizzling  rain  ;  inside  an  interested 
salesman  dragging  from  its  dusty  lair  the  ungainly  mon 
ster,  cheerfully  extolling  its  many  merits  and  possibilities, 
—  a  panegyric  lost  upon  one  at  least  of  his  hearers,  who, 
with  a  feeling  of  sadness  almost  akin  to  pain,  looked  at 

the  ugly  thing,  standing  on  four  straddling  stilts,  seeing 

144 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

only  a  succession  of  blue  Mondays  and  gray  skies  through 
an  atmosphere  of  steaming  suds.  Prospective  wash-days, 
however,  held  no  terror  for  Tom  ;  he  rose  to  the  occasion 
grandly,  declaring  with  much  animation  that  he  believed 
he  would  rather  like  the  novelty  of  the  thing,  —  that  it 
would  be  his  pride  and  pleasure  "to  make  the  wheels 
go  round."  But  after  one  or  two  experiences  his  en 
thusiasm  drifted  away  like  an  ebbing  tide  ;  and  I  soon 
learned  that  if  there  was  any  one  day  upon  which  farm- 
work  pressed  more  heavily  than  another,  that  day  was 
Monday  ;  though  the  gentleman  was  always  very  sorry 
his  own  work  was  so  crowding,  —  hoping  that  the  next 
Monday  he  would  be  "  able  to  grasp  the  helm."  It 
seems  strange,  but  even  at  this  late  day  his  work  con 
tinues  to  "  crowd  "  on  Monday,  though  it  always  seems 
to  ease  up  a  little  toward  the  middle  of  the  week. 

You  will  remember  that  the  rainy  season  was  on 
when  we  came  here  ;  consequently  the  drying  of  clothes 
was  a  problem,  and  to  hang  them  on  the  line,  stretched 
across  a  hillside  as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a  house,  required 
the  dexterity  of  a  mountain  climber.  The  ground, 
covered  with  soft  decaying  leaves,  was  as  slippery  as 
if  soaped.  To  keep  one's  feet  one  must  cling  to  the 
line  with  one  hand  while  hanging  clothes  with  the 
other ;  and  very  often  they  were  still  swinging  there, 
dripping  wet,  when  the  next  Monday  dawned.  I  hav 
ing  written  to  a  friend  about  these  difficulties,  she 
wrote  back  :  "  Make  your  laundry-work  light ;  put  away 

10  145 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

your  table  linen,  use  plate  doilies  and  paper  napkins." 
Telling  Mary  of  this  advice,  she  said,  "  The  lady  has 
forgotten  that  we  are  agriculturists.  Now  just  fancy 
these  men  clad  in  blue-jeans  and  cowhides,  confronting 
a  doily  of  Mexican  drawn  work  ! "  It  was  rather 
absurd ;  but  still  the  advice  was  not  quite  lost,  and  the 
result  was  that  some  of  our  long  cloths  were  cut  into 
luncheon  cloths,  exactly  fitting  the  top  of  the  table ; 
with  a  wide  hem  on  the  four  sides  they  looked  reason 
ably  well,  and  saved  much  labor.  Emboldened  by  this 
success,  the  Japanese  napkin  was  then  introduced,  —  not 
without  protest,  however,  as  Tom  remarked,  "  I  'd  much 
prefer  a  paper  bag  to  this  thing !  ' 

"  You  would  find  it  harsh,  Thomas,  and  rather  un 
yielding,"  replied  his  determined  spouse. 

"  Now  is  n't  that  a  dandy  affair  for  the  use  of  a  ro 
bust  farmer?"  he  continued,  holding  out  a  hand  with 
the  delicate  paper  squeezed  into  a  tight  little  wad  that 
would  scarcely  have  filled  a  thimble.  It  certainly  did 
look  small,  but  there  was  no  relenting  in  the  heart  of 
the  washerwoman. 

When  we  visited  each  other,  linen  napkins  were 
brought  forth — for  custom's  sake — though  it  was  tacitly 
understood  that  they  were  not  to  be  used,  and  we  women 
never  forgot.  I  have  often  been  moved  almost  to  tears 
to  see  how  promptly  and  carefully  Mary  laid  hers  aside. 

Sometimes  one  or  the  other  of  the  men,  forgetting 

the  unwritten  law,  would  shake  out  his  napkin  with  the 

146 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

old-time  flourish,  whereupon  his  hostess  was  apt  suddenly 
to  lose  her  vivacity,  becoming  abstracted  to  the  neglect 
of  her  duties.  In  spite  of  her  best  efforts,  her  eyes 
would  fix  themselves  upon  that  square  of  linen,  until 
the  offender,  hypnotized  into  consciousness  of  his  breach 
of  etiquette,  refolded  and  laid  it  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  temptation.  The  feast  over,  behold  Mary  and  me, 
with  smiles  "  childlike  and  bland,"  "  gathering  our 
sheaves,"  still  in  their  original  folds,  calmly  speculating 
upon  the  length  of  time  that,  with  care  and  vigilance, 
they  might  be  safely  withheld  from  the  laundry.  Free 
use  of  them  was  permitted,  however,  on  holidays  and 
anniversaries.  It  was  really  refreshing  then  to  note  the 
reckless  abandon  with  which  they  were  flung  to  the 
breeze.  As  all  "  habits  gather  by  unseen  degrees," 
Mary  and  I  have  now  about  persuaded  ourselves  that  the 
use  of  linen  napkins  between  the  beginning  of  the  rainy 
season  and  the  singing  of  the  bluebirds  is  "  bad  form  "  ! 

While  discussing  our  household  problems,  I  must  tell 
you  about  the  care  of  milk,  which  is  hardly  the  pleas 
ant  pastime  once  pictured  by  my  imagination,  —  such  a 
never-ending  straining,  skimming,  and  washing  of  pails 
and  cans  ! 

Unfortunately  we  had  bought  cans  much  too  large 
for  our  needs,  —  which  is  only  one  among  many  of  the 
mistakes  of  our  inexperience.  Having  been  told  by  the 
books  that  "  deep  setting  "  was  desirable,  we  went  in  for 
it,  —  and  we  've  got  it ;  the  washing  of  one  of  these  tall 

H7 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

tin  cans  is  like  reaching  into  the  depths  of  the  great  tun 
of  Heidelberg. 

There  was  no  milk-house  on  the  place  when  we 
came,  and  no  cellar,  —  they  seem  not  to  have  cellars  in 
Oregon,  —  and  as  the  weather  grew  warm  the  milk 
soured,  and  the  heart  of  Martha  was  troubled.  After 
worrying  along  for  a  time,  one  morning  Tom  said, 
"  I  've  an  inspiration,  Katharine  !  This  day  thou  shalt 
behold  a  milk-house  !  " 

After  several  hours  had  passed  I  was  called  to  come 
out  and  view  the  edifice.  I  sallied  forth  and  found  one 
of  our  largest  packing-boxes  placed  under  the  shade  of 
a  big  alder,  directly  over  the  little  spring  rivulet,  with 
a  wooden  trough  inside,  through  which  ran  the  water  in 
which  the  cans  were  to  stand.  Half  the  top  of  the  box 
was  hinged  to  fold  back ;  but  as  it  was  found  that  the 
mistress  of  the  manse  was  unable  to  reach  the  cans,  even 
when  standing  on  a  chair,  the  architect  was  obliged  to 
hinge  the  upper  half  of  one  side  to  let  down  instead  of 
lift  up.  Four  poles  driven  into  the  ground  supported 
an  old  porch-awning  which  served  as  a  canopy  for  this 
masterpiece. 

Rather  primitive  it  was,  although,  as  Tom  said,  "  It 
beats  nothing."  It  truly  did,  and  I  was  grateful  for  it, — 
though  not  long  before  I  had  visions  of  a  picturesque 
stone  milk-house,  overgrown  with  English  ivy,  myself 
walking  about  in  the  cool  interior,  directing  my  dairy 
maids,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  the  vigorous  Mrs. 

148 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Poyser.  When  I  have  an  errand  at  this  sylvan  shrine, 
I  have  only  to  walk  across  a  long  porch,  go  down  three 
steps,  descend  a  steep  little  hill,  turn  a  sharp  angle,  and 
I  am  there.  Then  I  lift  up  the  altar  cloth,  pull  hard  a 
leather  strap  hooked  over  a  nail,  turn  the  side-door 
down,  fold  back  the  upper  one,  reach  in  and  drag  out 
those  monstrous  cans,  each  dripping  with  water.  The 
thing  is  not  magnificent,  but  't  will  serve  ;  at  any  rate, 
it  keeps  our  milk  cool  and  sweet. 

You  perhaps  have  read  that  little  story,  "  Twenty 
Miles  from  a  Lemon."  Now  we  are  twenty  miles 
from  a  loaf  of  bread,  which  is  worse.  One  can  live 
without  lemons,  but  not  without  the  staff  of  life  ;  con 
sequently  one  must  bake,  though  the  heavens  fall,  twice 
or  three  times  each  week.  Furthermore,  we  have 
learned  here  that  it  will  not  do  to  buy  the  roasted  and 
ground  coffee,  as  at  home ;  having  to  be  bought  in  such 
large  quantities,  sufficient  to  last  for  weeks,  it  soon  loses 
both  its  strength  and  its  aroma.  An  old  coffee-mill 
nailed  to  the  side  of  the  woodhouse  conveyed  to  us  the 
hint  that  people  living  so  far  from  town  usually  ground 
their  own  coffee.  Thereupon  we  bought  a  new  mill 
and  a  supply  of  the  green  berry,  which  must  be  roasted 
twice  each  week  and  ground  twice  daily. 

Having  neither  electricity  nor  gas-lights,  we  had  to  fall 
back  upon  the  fragrant  kerosene  ;  and  dreary  enough  it 
seemed  at  first,  Tom  declaring  a  good  healthy  lightning- 
bug  would  be  quite  as  satisfactory.  For  a  time  the  care 

149 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

of  those  lamps  seemed  a  burden  greater  than  I  could 
bear,  but  now,  though  it  has  not  fallen  from  me, 
and  never  will,  I  fear,  I  have  become  resigned  to  the 
task  as  a  part  of  the  price  one  must  pay  for  the  "  free 
dom  of  the  hills."  And  yet  I  do  feel  the  revival  of 
the  coffee-mill  and  the  lamp  as  a  retrogression. 

While  I  am  becoming  accustomed  to  the  absence  of 
gas  for  illuminating  purposes,  I  bitterly  deplore  the 
loss  of  my  gas  range  ;  the  heat  of  a  monstrous  wood 
range  in  summer  time,  in  a  kitchen  blessed  with  but 
one  window,  is  beyond  description.  I  honestly  be 
lieve  that  if  one  out  searching  for  Hades  should  about 
the  noon  hour  poke  his  head  in  my  kitchen,  he 
would  instantly  shout,  "  Eureka  !  Eureka  !  "  and  cease 
his  quest. 

This  range,  to  be  kept  up  to  the  mark  of  duty,  when 
fed  by  the  light  dry  fir  wood  used  here,  must  be 
crammed  unceasingly  ;  it  gulps  down  a  half-dozen 
sticks  in  as  many  minutes  and  immediately  sulks  for 
more.  To  keep  the  pot  boiling  with  such  fuel  re 
quires  eternal  vigilance. 

There  is  no  cooling  off  here  by  drinking  ice-water, 
for,  alas  !  there  is  no  ice.  While  spring  water  is  cold, 
one  can't  help  longing  for  the  tinkle  of  ice  in  the 
pitcher  ;  and  iceless  lemonade  is,  as  we  have  found  to 
our  sorrow,  "  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable."  Ice-cream 
and  those  refreshing  water  ices  !  —  let  me  not  speak  of 

them,  for  "  that  way  madness  lies." 

150 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

The  other  day  I  threw  a  big  gunnysack  over  our  old 
freezer,  just  as  a  veil  to  hide  the  past. 

The  lack  of  ice  of  course  causes  much  extra  work 
and  trouble  in  caring  for  food.  Until  now  I  never  half 
appreciated  a  refrigerator ;  but,  as  Tom  says,  "  We 
never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  runs  dry."  As  our 
well  is  a  spring,  we  hope  we  may  be  spared  that  calam 
ity.  This  spring  is  near,  — just  at  the  end  of  the 
kitchen  porch,  —  and  yet  the  water  for  use  must  all  be 
carried  in.  Less  convenient,  surely,  than  the  turning 
of  a  faucet  above  the  kitchen  sink ! 

We  have  other  trials  and  privations,  —  and  com 
pensations  also.  At  home  the  vegetables  we  use  are 
brought  us  from  the  markets.  Here  we  must  ourselves 
go  to  the  garden  for  them  ;  this  takes  time,  but  I  am 
always  glad  to  go,  —  glad  to  go  anywhere,  to  escape 
the  consuming  breath  of  that  life-destroying  fiend  of 
the  kitchen.  There,  in  the  fruit-canning  season,  the 
fruit  in  cases  and  baskets  is  delivered  at  the  door ; 
here  we  must  pick  it  from  the  trees,  —  such  delightful 
work  that  I  can't  even  pretend  to  complain  of  it.  To 
day,  gathering  rosy  peach-plums  under  that  tent  of 
green  leaves,  I  felt  so  insufferably  proud  that  had  the 
arrogant  "  Mrs.  Lofty "  passed  by  with  her  carriage 
and  coachman,  I  could  not  but  have  smiled  upon  her 
disdainfully. 

Unfortunately  for  me,  Tom  has  recently  learned  in 
some  way  that  corn-bread  is  a  nourishing  food  for  young 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

chickens  (I  knew  it  long  ago --read  it  in  a  book  — 
but  kept  still  about  it),  and  I  have  now  to  bake  about 
a  yard  of  it  daily.  As  Mrs.  Todgers,  of  boarding- 
house  fame,  said  of  the  making  of  gravy  for  single 
gentlemen,  "  That  one  item  has  aged  me  ten  years." 

This  tale  of  woe  might  be  continued  indefinitely,  but 
enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  our  "  leisure  "  is  not 
really  burdensome  ;  that  we  are  not  quite  all  the  time 
sitting  with  folded  hands,  "  rapt  in  nameless  reverie." 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  toil,  the  hardships,  and  the 
privations  of  this  life,  these  Oregon  scenes  are  so  dear 
to  me  that  I  would  not  exchange  this  woodsy  old  ranch 
for  the  finest  of  city  homes,  with  a  retinue  of  servants 
and  ten  thousand  a  year  thrown  in.  I  am  far  happier 
here  under  these  dark  firs,  with  the  wood  pigeons  and 
the  owls,  the  fresh  air,  and  the  glorious  freedom  of  the 
hills. 


152 


XVII 

A  BUSY  time  indeed  we  hill-dwellers  have  been 
having  for  the  past  six  weeks  !     Such  hurrying 
to   and    fro,    such    rushing    in   and   out,  such 
fetching  and  carrying,  such  toiling  and  moiling,  as  if  the 
prosperity  of  the  nation  depended  upon   our  individual 
activity,  —  surely   I  never  saw  the  like  of  it  before. 

What  is  it  all  about  ?  Why,  we  've  been  a-harvest- 
ing,  and  a-gathering  in  the  sheaves,  and  a-threshing  of 
'em ;  and  I  've  been  a-standing  over  that  fiery  dragon 
of  a  kitchen,  canning  fruit,  making  a  bewildering  con 
fusion  of  jams,  jellies,  marmalades,  and  preserves,  with 
sweet-pickling  and  sour-pickling  and  chili-saucing,  and 
all  the  other  evils  flesh  is  heir  to  thrown  in  as  a  side 
issue ;  and  I  have  n't  had  time  to  take  a  deep,  full 
breath  since  the  middle  of  August. 

However,  it  was  not  of  these  things  that  I  intended 
to  write  to-day ;  rather,  of  certain  good  fortune  that 
has  just  come  to  me,  —  and  on  wash-day,  too,  when  I 
never  look  for  anything  but  sodden,  suds-soaked  misery. 

Let  me  tell  you,  first,  that  this  being  forced  to  do 
one's  own  laundry-work  is  the  worst  feature  of  ranch 
life.  The  shadow  of  the  coming  event  actually  darkens 
my  Sundays,  and  by  Monday  morning  I  have  generally 
reached  the  depths  of  gloom. 

153 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

In  this  mood  I  remarked  at  breakfast,  rather  savagely  : 
"  I  wish  to  goodness  some  Croesus  would  scatter  some 
of  his  superfluous  millions  among  poor  and  needy  ranch- 
folk  !  What 's  the  sense  of  giving  organs  and  libraries 
to  people  who  don't  want  them,  and  of  endowing  uni 
versities  that  get  mad  about  it  and  are  ashamed  of 
their  origin  ?  " 

Thomas,  recognizing  the  Monday  morning  madness, 
showed  no  surprise  at  this  outburst,  but  placidly  in 
quired  :  "  Have  you  a  specially  crying  need  of  wealth 
this  morning  ?  What  do  you  want  to  buy  ? " 

"  Nothing,  —  I  want  to  build.  If  my  esteemed 
friend  Mr.  Carnegie  would  favor  me  with,  well,  say 
this  coffee-pot  full  of  twenty-dollar  gold-pieces,  I  'd 
proceed  at  once  to  erect  a  steam  laundry,  out  of  sight 
and  sound  of  this  house,  away  back  in  the  canyon,  in  its 
darkest,  deepest  depths;  and  I'd  have  a  Chinaman  to 
operate  it,  and  Mr.  Mantalini  himself  to  preside  over 
the  mangle,  and  a  big  bandanna-browed  lady  of  African 
descent  to  hand  out  the  soiled  linen  to  that  Mongolian  ; 
and  I  'd  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  this  unpleasant 
business  until  the  clothes  were  returned,  smooth  and 
immaculate,  in  beautiful  Indian  baskets,  each  separate 
package  wrapped  in  white  tissue  paper,  ribbon-bound, 
with  sprays  of  sword-fern,  wild  lavender,  and  mountain 
laurel  tucked  in.  That's  what  I'd  do  if  I  had  the 
necessary  wealth !  " 

"  Great    Scott !    but    you   are   soaring   this  morning, 

154 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Katharine!  Methinks  e'en  now  I  behold  the  opium- 
tinged  gentleman  from  Hong  Kong,  in  flowing  Oriental 
robes,  entering  my  suite  of  apartments,  bearing  an  Injin 
tray  of  manzanita,  upon  which  lie  in  state  my  dark  blue 
overalls  and  my  blue  jumper,  with  one  lone  red  ban 
danna  glowing  upon  its  pulseless  breast,  and  these  all 
swathed  about  with  tissue  paper  and  baby-ribbon,  a  cute 
little  wisp  of  golden-rod  tucked  in  the  left  hip  pocket 
of  my  blue-jeans.  Bon  ami!  How  absurd!" 

"Bon  ami!- -I  don't  know  what  it  means,  and  I 
doubt  if  you  do." 

"  I  don't,  Katharine,  but  we  Ve  got  to  work  up  in 
the  languages  a  little  if  we  are  going  to  have  a  house 
ful  of  foreign-born  menials  ;  they  will  be  likely  to  act 
sort  of  uppish  at  times,  then  I  '11  roar  at  'em  in  French, 
and  I  fancy  it  will  be  pretty  scary." 

"  It  certainly  will  be  awesome,  —  your  kind  of 
French.  But  do  listen  to  that  clock  striking  seven !  " 

"  Tempus  fugit,  —  to  continue  my  classic  form  of 
speech  ;  and  as  your  thought-waves  are  not  likely  to 
reach  the  shekel-dispenser  of  Skibo  in  time  to  bring 
returns  before  next  week,  shall  I  rise  and  fill  the  wash- 
boiler  as  of  yore  ? " 

"  You  may,  if  you  please,  —  as  Chang  Wang's  barque 
seems  to  be  detained  by  head  winds." 

While  we  were  engaged  in  the  task  of  gathering 
together  the  depressing  laundry  outfit,  my  assistant  ear 
nestly  assured  me  that  he  "  really  would  take  a  hand 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

to-day,"  —  as  it  was  probably  the  last  time  the  work 
would  be  done  at  the  house,  —  only  that  he  was  just 
compelled  to  put  new  sills  under  the  cattle-barn,  as  it 
was  liable  to  tumble  down  any  minute. 

As  the  structure  referred  to  has  stood  for  about  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  it  seemed  possible  the  crash  might 
not  have  come  to-day,  —  and  I  believe  I  hinted  as 
much,  as  I  went  about  radiating  sweetness  and  light. 

Not  long  after  this  there  might  have  been  seen  upon 
the  back  porch  of  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs  a 
woman's  waving  shadow,  bowing  and  bending  low 
above  a  wash-tub,  the  shadow  muttering, — 

"  For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there  's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep." 

After  an  hour  or  more  of  hard  work,  I  observed 
Thomas  coming  up  from  the  ruins  of  Palmyra,  and 
hoping  to  awaken  a  spark  of  compassion  in  his  ada 
mantine  bosom,  I  put  on  my  most  fagged  expression, 
rubbing  so  fast  and  with  such  force  that  every  loose 
thing  on  the  porch  was  jingling  when  he  reached  it. 

But,  alas  for  my  misplaced  hopes  !  he  passed  me 
with  a  cheerful,  "  Lay  on,  MacdufF! " 

Then  "  the  breaking  waves  dashed  high,"  and  the 
white  foam  flew,  but  the  Madonna  of  the  tubs  spake 
no  word. 

He  came  for  some  tool,  as  nearly  as  I  could  judge 

without  looking  at  him,  —  which  I    disdained    to  do. 

156 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

When  starting  back,  he  halted  to  say  :  "A  mighty 
tough  time  I  'm  having  with  that  old  shack.  Casual 
ties  up  to  the  present  hour,  one  mashed  thumb,  two 
blood-blisters  on  left  hand,  three  fir  splinters  in  right." 
Then  he  waited  a  little  for  some  expression  of  sym 
pathy  ;  but  nothing  was  heard  on  the  porch  but  the 
hurrying  hand  of  the  wash-lady. 

Advancing  by  easy  stages  to  the  colored  clothes,  I 
found  among  them  a  pair  of  overalls,  —  new  ones,  as 
stiff  as  buckram.  In  one  pocket  I  discovered  about  half 
a  pound  of  nails  of  various  sizes,  a  coil  of  wire,  a  short 
piece  of  rope,  and  a  leather  shoestring  ;  in  another  some 
plump  grains  of  vetch  and  some  large  speckled  beans, 
doubtless  carried  about  to  awaken  envy  in  the  hearts  of 
neighboring  farmers.  The  usual  supply  of  oats  and  chaff 
was  then  shaken  out,  and  the  lightened  garments  were 
plunged  in  the  tub,  where,  becoming  inflated  with  hot 
air,  they  refused  to  down  at  my  bidding, — just  fell  upon 
their  knees,  looking  so  like  their  owner  that  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  drowning  him.  Unmoved,  I  was  jabbing  them 
viciously  with  a  stick,  when  a  strange  voice  said,  "  Good- 
morning,  ma'am  !  "  I  jumped,  dropped  the  stick,  and 
the  blue-jeans  bobbed  up  like  a  jack-in-the-box.  Near 
me  stood  a  perfect  giant  of  a  man  with  a  flour-sack  on  his 
shoulder,  really  the  tallest  man  ever  seen  outside  of  a 
canvas. 

"  Are  you  Mrs.  Graham  ?  " 

I  thought  of  saying,  "No;  I  'm  Bridget  McCarty ; 

157 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Mrs.  Graham  is  at  the  sea-shore."  But  before  I  could 
speak,  the  giant  continued,  "  I  've  got  some  mail  here 
for  you,"  as  he  began  untying  the  flour-sack,  the  only 
form  of  mailbag  used  in  the  hills. 

Now  we  had  had  no  mail  for  over  two  weeks ;  and 
as  I  watched  that  towering  angel  in  corduroy  throwing 
out  letters,  magazines,  papers,  and  packages,  I  could  have 
fallen  upon  his  neck  in  gratitude  —  if  a  convenient  step- 
ladder  had  been  near  me. 

A  pitcher  of  milk  with  a  gingerbread  accompaniment 
was  offered,  and  graciously  accepted  by  the  giant. 
Declining  a  chair,  he  rested  on  the  edge  of  a  table, 
the  Madonna  on  the  wash-bench,  as  we  held  a  porch 
conversazione.  I  learned  that  he  was  living  quite  alone 
on  a  timber  claim,  "  about  four  mile  back  in  the  moun 
tains,  mighty  nigh  the  summit,  and  just  about  at  the 
end  of  things." 

"  Ever  feel  lonely  up  there  ? "  I  ventured  to  inquire. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  I  've  lived  in  the  woods  since  I  was 
knee-high ;  I  go  to  town  about  once  in  three  months, 
and  then  I  'm  lonesome,  uneasy  as  a  fish  out  of  water, 
just  homesick  for  the  big  trees." 

I  recognized  a  kindred  spirit.  He  then  told  me  of  his 
work,  —  of  making  rails  and  posts,  of  splitting  shingles 
and  clapboards,  of  cooking,  and  of  baking  "  sour-dough 
biscuit."  I  wondered  what  they  were. 

"  And  do  you  have  to  do  this  ? "  I  asked,  with  a  wave 

of  my  hand  toward  the  tubs. 

158 


LETTERS    FROM   AN    OREGON    RANCH 

"  Yes,  about  once  a  month." 

"  Don't  you  just  hate  it  ? " 

"  You  bet  I  do  !  "  (Another  link  forged  in  friendship's 
chain.)  "  But  I  make  short  work  of  it,  slap  'em  through 
in  a  hurry  and  throw  ;em  on  the  bushes  to  dry ;  and  I 
never  wash  them  things,"  —  pointing  to  the  suds-soaked 
effigy  of  Thomas,  now  slowly  sinking  into  the  waters  of 
oblivion.  "  You  see  mine  get  just  plastered  with  pitch  ; 
water  wouldn't  even  wet  'em.  I  wear  'em  till  things 
get  to  stickin'  to  me,  then  burn  'em." 

I  fancied  him  in  his  strange  suit  of  armor,  stalk 
ing  about  in  the  gloom  of  the  forest,  with  feathers, 
ferns,  shavings,  pine  needles,  and  cones  sticking  to 
him,  giving  him  the  look  of  some  gigantic  woodland 
satyr. 

But  the  best  of  friends  must  part ;  his  cart  was  soon 
climbing  the  long  hills,  and  I  gathering  up  the  mail  with 
the  joy  of  Silas  Marner  gloating  over  the  pot  of  gold 
hidden  beneath  his  loom.  I  had  resolved  to  keep  it  all 
intact  until  my  work  was  done,  and  then  enjoy  it  with  a 
clear  conscience ;  and  I  might  have  done  so  but  for  a 
mysterious  package,  very  heavy  and  oblong,  not  unlike 
a  gold  brick,  too  tempting  to  be  resisted.  Eager  fin 
gers  hurriedly  removed  the  heavy  outer  wrapper,  then 
a  lighter  one,  then  one  of  tissue  paper,  and  there  ap 
peared  the  most  beautiful  book,  —  fine  paper,  exquisite 
type,  wide  margins,  and  choice  illustrations. 

Thinking   gratefully   and    lovingly    of  the   generous 

»59 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

giver  of  my  precious  book,  and  quite  ashamed  of 
the  rebellious  mood  of  the  morning,  I  went  back  to 
my  work  with  a  light  and  happy  heart.  Something 
pleasant  had  happened  to  relieve  the  monotony  of 
toil  and  change  the  current  of  my  thought.  Work 
was  easy  now,  and  soon  those  clothes  were  fluttering 
white  upon  the  hillside.  They  were  not  slighted  in 
the  least,  either ;  for  I  've  learned  of  Emerson,  corrob 
orated  by  experience,  that  to  feel  "  relieved  and  gay, 
one's  work  must  be  well  done,  otherwise  it  shall 
give  one  no  peace;  is  a  deliverance  which  does  not 
deliver." 

Dinner  over,  the  work  "  done  up,"  and  every  trace 
of  the  late  unpleasantness  removed,  Bridget  McCarty 
vanished  from  mortal  view ;  Mrs.  Graham  emerged 
from  seclusion,  freshly  if  not  modishly  gowned,  seated 
herself  in  a  favorite  rocker  by  a  favorite  window,  drew 
another  chair  near  upon  which  was  piled  that  blessed 
mail,  then  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  three  p.  M.,  — 
two  whole  hours  before  time  to  begin  supper. 

During  those  two  hours  I  was  about  as  near  perfect 
content  and  happiness  as  I  ever  expect  to  be  this  side 
the  gates  of  pearl.  Absorbed  in  the  delightful  con 
tents  of  six  plump  letters,  the  fascinations  of  a  new 
book,  and  a  multitude  of  papers  and  magazines,  I  was 
startled  when  the  clock  with  cruel  distinctness  struck 
five.  The  sound  fell  upon  my  ear  like  the  death-knell 
of  Duncan. 

160 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Now,  if  you  think  my  pleasure  in  these  things  exag 
gerated,  go  and  live  for  a  year  or  two  in  the  isolation 
of  the  woods,  far  away  from  public  libraries  and  book 
stores  ;  then  let  a  surprise  and  pleasure  like  mine  come 
into  your  life,  and  see  if  your  head  also  would  not  be 
turned  just  a  little. 


ii  161 


N 


XVIII 

OW    that  the   "  mellow    Autumn    days "    have 
come,  if  you  are  longing  for  — 


"  Air  and  sunshine  and  blue  sky, 
The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  your  face, 
The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  your  feet, 
And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain  tops," 

then  come  to  my  beloved  Oregon  hills.  All  for  which 
you  long  is  here ;  and  far  more,  now  that  Autumn  is 
abroad  in  the  land,  standing  tiptoe  upon  the  hilltops, 
pouring  down  their  slopes  "  from  a  beaker  full  of 
richest  dyes  "  a  flame  that  setteth  the  mountains  on  fire 
and  maketh  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.  Illustrated 
in  colors,  they  seem  not  the  hills  we  have  known,  but 
strangely  unfamiliar  in  this  shimmering  radiance,  this 
new  witchery  "  from  dreamland  sent."  There  was  a 
time  when  I  was  rather  skeptical  of  the  existence  of  a 
"beauty  that  intoxicates,"  but  that  was  before  coming 
to  Oregon.  I  am  a  believer  now,  and  already  half 
inebriated  through  the  charm  of  this  latest  revelation. 
For  a  long  time  I  have  been  sitting  on  an  old  stump,  — 
one  of  the  decorative  features  of  our  woodland  lawn,  — 
looking  over  this  wonderland  and  regretting  the  years 

lost  in  finding  it. 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

For  the  first  and  only  time  in  my  life,  I  am  happy 
and  content  in  my  environment.  Of  course  there  are 
some  ugly  old  buildings  that  mar  the  picture,  —  but 
you  know  that  we  are  told  to  look  up,  not  down  ; 
and  looking  up,  they  are  quite  forgotten.  Such  a  sky 
as  we  have  here  to-day,  —  blue  as  a  harebell,  and  much 
the  shape  of  one,  its  rim  just  resting  upon  this  crown 
of  dark  firs ;  crawling  up  its  western  edge,  a  low  line 
of  white  wreathing  clouds,  as  if  the  sea,  rolling  high, 
were  dashing  its  foam  there.  A  luminous  flood  of 
sunshine  is  in  the  air,  soft,  caressing,  and  sweet  with 
the  aromatic  breath  of  the  fir  trees ;  brooding  over  all 
is  "Nature's  own  exceeding  peace,"  a  hush  unusual 
even  in  this  land  of  silence.  I  thought  —  as  I  often 
do  here  —  of  the  stillness  of  Craigenputtoch,  where 
"  for  hours  the  only  sound  is  that  of  the  sheep  nib 
bling  the  short  grass  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  "  ;  of 
Carlyle  writing  his  mother :  "  These  are  the  grayest 
and  most  silent  days  I  ever  saw.  My  broom,  as  I 
sweep  up  the  withered  leaves,  might  be  heard  at  a 
furlong's  distance."  I  always  think  of  that  place  as 
the  dreariest  on  earth.  "  The  house,  gaunt  and  hungry- 
looking,  standing  in  its  scanty  fields  like  an  island  in 
a  sea  of  morass,  the  landscape  unredeemed  either  by 
grace  or  grandeur,  —  mere  undulating  hills  of  grass  and 
heather,  with  peat-bogs  in  the  hollows."  What  a  home 
for  the  eager,  ambitious,  brilliant  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle  ! 

Away  from  all  the  refinements  of  life,  shut  up  in  that 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

gaunt,  hungry-looking  house  on  that  treeless  waste  with 
that  tragic  man  of  genius,  —  of  terrible  earnestness  and 
blackest  melancholy,  —  is  it  any  wonder  that  she  lost 
her  cheerfulness  and  vivacity  ? 

Though  we  have  here  the  solitude,  thank  goodness 
we  have  not  the  gray  desolation  of  Craigenputtoch  nor 
the  gloom  of  a  man  of  genius.  The  only  sounds  that 
come  to  me  in  this  peaceful  Eden  are  those  of  softly 
rippling  invisible  waters,  the  low  murmur  of  insects, 
the  occasional  dropping  of  the  tiny  brown  cones  of  the 
alders,  and  a  faint  rustle  of  falling  leaves.  Nothing 
more.  Even  the  clamorous  cricket  is  silent.  Our 
birds  have  long  been  mute,  and  now  "  slide  o'er  the 
lustrous  woodland,"  voiceless  phantoms  of  the  minstrels 
we  once  knew. 

But  we  have  a  visitor  who  has  brought  his  voice 
with  him.  He  has  but  lately  come  to  us,  from  out  of 
the  reeds  and  rushes  of  the  lowlands,  —  a  meadow-lark. 
Every  morning  comes  floating  up  to  us  from  this  little 
glen  a  melody  so  divine  that  the  angels  above  must  fold 
their  wings  to  listen.  From  childhood  I  have  loved  this 
bird  above  all  others.  His  notes  are  inexpressibly  mel 
low  and  sweet,  —  tender,  too,  with  a  perplexing  hint  of 
sadness.  Is  it  the  pathos  of  reminiscence,  of  prophecy, 
or  of  passionate  pleading  ?  I  try  hard  to  understand,  but 
cannot.  I  only  know  there  is  in  it  a  cadence - 

"  That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 
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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Of  something  felt,  like  something  here; 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where." 

Tears  fill  my  eyes  as  I  listen.  I  hope  that  "  when  I  put 
out  to  sea  "  a  flight  of  this  divine  melody  may  pilot  me 
through  the  gray  mists  to  that  far-away  shore  where 
shine  the  lights  of  the  heavenly  harbor. 

The  —  I  was  going  to  say  lawn,  but  I  won't,  for 
that  word  does  n't  fit  this  lumpy,  bumpy,  gopher-hilled 
ground  ;  it  is  best,  when  you  live  in  the  woods,  to  put 
aside  affectations  ;  so  henceforth  and  forever  I  shall  say 
dooryard.  The  dooryard  now  has  none  of  its  June  love 
liness.  While  the  grass  is  still  green,  it  has  lost  its 
freshness  through  the  drouth  and  heat  of  summer ;  and 
the  wild  flowers  that  once  blossomed  here  are  but  a 
memory.  A  few  clover  blooms,  in  defiance  of  fate  and 
frost,  are  trying  bravely  to  hold  up  their  heads,  but 
they  have  lost  the  rosy  glow  of  youth.  All  about  me 
the  dandelions  are  lifting  high  in  air  their  gauzy  white 
balloons.  They  are  quite  different  from  ours  at  home, 
which  were  low  growers  ;  and  if  one  rashly  attempted 
to  cut  down  one  of  the  white-headed  veterans,  his 
head  fell  off  and  blew  away.  Here  they  are  nearly  two 
feet  high,  and  that  hollow  starry  globe  of  lacework  is  a 
wonderful  stayer.  Nearly  a  month  ago,  tempted  by  the 
beauty  of  these  delicate  transparencies,  I  cut  a  few  of 
the  slender  stems  and  stuck  them  in  a  pot  of  growing 
ferns,  not  expecting  them  to  last  more  than  a  few 
hours  ;  and  here  they  are  to-day,  those  fairy  balloons 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

just  lifted  above  the  green,  fully  inflated  and  tugging  at 
their  guy-ropes. 

The  thistle  family  also  is  well  represented  here.  Pur 
ple  with  bloom  and  white  with  down,  the  yard  looks 
like  a  cotton-field.  I  find  the  thistle  rather  interesting, 
now  that  I  have  left  the  vain  world  and  its  distractions 
and  have  time  to  look  at  it,  with  its  long  narrow  leaf 
deeply  notched  and  lance-tipped,  its  purple-stained  paint 
brush  blossom,  its  seed-pod,  —  such  a  pretty  flaring  cup 
of  wood-brown,  thickly  studded  with  sharp  spikes  and 
filled  with  tiny  brown  seeds  all  feathered  and  ready  for 
flight.  It  seems  a  wonderful  plant,  and  must  be  pos 
sessed  of  virtues  still  unknown  to  us,  else  why  did  nature 
take  such  pains  to  protect  and  perpetuate  it  ? 

Holding  up  the  brown  cup,  I  blew  gently  across  it, 
and  oh,  such  a  frenzy  of  excitement  among  those  little 
feathery  folk  of  thistle-down  !  They  leaped  over  the 
housetop,  tumbled  down  the  spiked  walls,  clinging 
frantically  to  one  another  in  that  brief  moment  of  part 
ing  ;  then,  disentangling  themselves,  floated  upward,  cir 
cling  about  an  instant,  took  one  last  look  at  the  little 
brown  home,  and  one  by  one  sailed  away  into  the  blue 
briery  world.  As  the  empty  cup  fell  from  my  hand,  I 
felt  half  sorry  for  those  drifting  airy  voyagers. 

When  the  cups  have  emptied  their  contents,  they 
soon  become  round  platters,  each  with  a  fringed  lining 
of  old-ivory  satin,  in  the  centre  a  tiny  tufted  couch 

of  softest  down.     In  such  a  cosey  bed  had  nestled  the 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

little  brown  heads  of  my  poor  wanderers.     Why  need 
I   have  meddled  with  them  ? 

Farmers  may  despise  the  thistle,  but  I  'm  sure  the 
butterflies  love  it.  Oh,  the  beauties  I  have  seen  this 
day,  —  not  the  delicately  tinted  butterflies  of  Summer, 
but  living,  glowing  jewels,  fluttering  always  above  the 
thistles !  One  rested  for  a  long  time  upon  a  purple 
bloom  quite  near  me,  opening  and  closing  his  exquisite 
wings  of  black  and  gold,  sun-illumined,  like  dainty, 
gauzy  Japanese  fans. 

I  must  go  back  and  tell  you  of  the  beauty  of  that 
towering  hill  directly  in  front  of  us.  It  is  really  a 
mountain,  I  think,  but  here  we  call  it  a  hill.  We  had 
quite  forgotten  the  many  maple  trees  growing  upon  its 
slopes,  the  green  of  their  foliage  in  the  Summer-time 
being  lost  in  that  of  the  firs.  Though  we  forgot, 
Autumn  remembered ;  and,  grieved  that  her  favorites 
should  remain  unrecognized  in  that  monotony  of 
green,  she  stole  softly  into  the  shadowy  forest,  traced 
up  the  lost  Cinderellas,  and  then,  with  the  gorgeous 
dyes  of  Turner  and  the  brush  of  an  impressionist, 
splashed  all  their  broad  leaves  with  that  ineffable  glory 
which  is  the  distinctive  badge  of  the  maple  family. 
To-day,  as  I  look  up  and  see  them  standing  on  the 
heights,  the  rich  blazonry  of  their  armorial  bear 
ings  flashing  in  the  fair  October  sunlight,  I  say  aloud, 
"  Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 
Lord." 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Such  a  blaze  of  beauty  so  near  the  sky  seems  passing 
strange  to  me  coming  from  a  level  country,  seems  alien 
to  this  world,  and  I  half  believe  it  to  be  a  celestial 
landslide.  I  look,  and  look,  and  am  thrilled  through 
every  fibre  of  my  being.  I  feel  such  excitement,  buoy 
ancy,  exultation,  I  want  to  absorb  it  all,  to  catch  the 
luminous  picture  with  its  wavering  lights,  its  tremulous 
shadows,  and  fold  it  away  in  memory  as  a  sort  of  sacred 
amulet,  a  charm  to  be  brought  from  its  hiding-place 
when  the  dull  days  come,  as  come  they  must  in  every 
human  life. 

"  Katharine  !   Oh,  Katharine  !  " 

That 's  Bert's  voice.  "  I  'm  coming  !  "  I  answered, 
as,  clambering  down,  I  turned  for  one  last  lingering 
look  at  those  banners  of  scarlet  and  gold  floating  across 
that  field  of  green,  like  the  passing  of  some  royal  old- 
time  cavalcade,  and  I  thought  that  if  I  should  hear  the 
blast  of  a  trumpet  or  the  notes  of  a  bugle,  see  prancing 
steeds  with  gay  trappings,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
plumed  heads  of  lords  and  ladies,  followed  by  glittering 
knights  with  shining  shields  and  lances,  I  should  feel  no 
surprise,  but  think  it  fitting  pageantry  for  this  "  land 
o*  glamour,"  where  — 

"  The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory." 


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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

I  found  Bert  awaiting  me  with  both  hands  full. 
Mary  had  sent  a  great  bunch  of  magnificent  chrysanthe 
mums,  all  white  and  gold,  —  the  fluffy-headed  kind,  with 
curling  petals.  He  brought,  too,  a  branch  of  blood-red 
vine  maple  that  he  had  broken  off  as  he  came  through 
the  woods,  and  some  very  curious  lichens.  And  in  this 
pleasant  but  effective  way  was  cut  short  the  thread  of 
these  Autumnal  rhapsodies. 


169 


XIX 

SINCE   my   last    letter,   we    have    passed    through 
such  a  terrible  experience  that  I  scarcely  know 
how    to    describe    it.      I    shudder    as    I    write. 
Think    of   it !  —  in    this    quiet    out-of-the-way    place, 
where  we  felt  so  safe,  so  secure !     Though  this  awful 
tragedy  occurred  three  nights  ago,  my  nerves  are  still 
quivering.     I  feel  so  weak  and  unstrung  that  I  fear  I 
cannot  write  calmly  or  coherently  about  it. 

The  wretched  affair  happened  in  the  ball-room, — 
most  incongruous  of  places !  We  find  that  entrance  to 
the  room  was  effected  by  way  of  the  roof,  which  the 
intruder  must  have  reached  by  climbing  a  large  alder 
tree  standing  near  the  corner  of  the  house.  We  now 
believe  him  to  have  been  secreted  there  when  we  went 
to  our  beds.  My  blood  runs  cold  when  I  think  of  it  — 
But  it  dawns  upon  me  that  I  am  not  telling  this  story 
in  the  right  way.  How  do  the  reporters  manage 
these  things  ?  I  believe  the  tragedy  should  have  come 
later,  —  that  I  should  have  led  up  to  it  more  gradually, 
describing  the  events  preceding  it,  the  scene  of  the  con 
flict,  with  a  diagram  of  the  room  showing  the  position 
of  each  piece  of  furniture,  the  hole  in  the  roof,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  Now  I  '11  have  to  begin  again,  I 

fear,  and  do  it  all  over. 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Soon  after  coming  here,  believing  that  our  dancing 
days  were  over,  we  decided  to  reform  the  ball-room  by 
making  a  bedroom  of  it.  By  doing  this  we  could  re 
serve  the  only  one  below  for  a  possible  guest,  and  could 
ourselves  have  the  pleasure  of  sleeping  upstairs,  where 
we  could  hear  the  rain  falling  upon  the  roof.  "  Much 
too  good  a  thing  to  miss,"  Tom  said,  "  in  this  land 
where  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day  —  and  night,  too  — 
for  six  months  at  a  stretch  !  " 

How  to  get  our  furniture  up  that  narrow  perpendic 
ular  stairway  was  a  problem.  Fortunately,  it  was  still 
crated,  just  as  it  had  come  from  the  far  East.  Bert  and 
Mary  volunteered  their  assistance ;  and  finally,  through 
much  pushing,  shoving,  groaning,  and  some  maledic 
tions,  the  deed  was  done.  Our  ball-room  was  trans 
formed.  Then  Thomas  had  some  dark  hours  there, 
removing  tacks,  nails,  screws,  boards,  drugget,  and 
excelsior,  and  putting  the  various  pieces  together,  after 
which  Katharine  —  she  who  has  lived  to  tell  the  tale  — 
brought  her  mighty  talents  to  bear  upon  the  situation, 
toiling  for  days  trying  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos. 

I  once  gave  you  a  description  of  the  ball-room,  but 
perhaps  you  have  forgotten  it.  The  room  is  twenty  feet 
wide  and  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long  ;  side  walls, 
rough,  unplaned  boards  running  up  and  down  ;  no  ceil 
ing  overhead,  just  the  rafters  and  shingles,  —  its  spa 
ciousness  and  beautiful  smooth  floor  its  only  redeeming 

features.     With  two  full  chamber-sets,  and  some  extra 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

furniture  for  which  there  was  no  room  below,  there 
was  still  left  a  vacant  space  of  sufficient  size  for  a  couple 
of  cotillions. 

At  one  end  of  the  apartment  was  a  platform  about  a 
foot  high  for  the  use  of  the  musicians  in  "  the  brave 
days  of  old."  Upon  this  dais,  feeling  like  one  of  royal 
birth,  I  placed  my  bedstead.  Tom,  upon  beholding 
it,  immediately  dubbed  my  part  of  the  room  "  Mrs. 
Boffin's  Bower." 

Suspecting  spiders  in  the  roof,  we  tacked  large  sheets 
to  the  rafters  above  each  bed,  —  canopies  that  added 
to  the  general  effect ;  the  one  above  the  dais  looked  so 
grand  that  I  felt  a  sort  of  awe  of  it  myself.  As  a  fin 
ishing  touch,  a  few  rugs  were  scattered  over  the  floor. 
The  decorative  artist,  turning  to  leave,  paused  in  the 
doorway  for  a  critical  examination  of  the  "altogether," 
and  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  a  bedroom  in  a 
barn  would  have  been  quite  as  attractive. 

Up  to  this  time  it  had  been  raining  steadily,  though 
gently,  for  days ;  but  the  morning  my  great  work  was 
completed  it  began  pouring  in  torrents,  growing  worse 
toward  evening,  with  a  strong  wind  blowing  straight 
from  the  ocean,  something  very  unusual  here. 

When  Tom  had  finished  his  evening  work  and  was 
standing  on  the  porch,  shaking  the  rain  from  his  storm- 
coat,  he  called  out,  "  A  fine  night  for  the  Abbey, 
Katharine  !  " 

"  Yes,    won't    it    be    glorious  ? "    I   responded    with 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

enthusiasm.  We  were  in  high  glee,  —  could  n't  wait 
for  our  regular  bedtime,  but  put  our  books  aside  early, 
covered  the  embers  in  the  old  stone  fireplace,  lighted  a 
hand-lamp,  and  were  ready  for  the  ascension  soon  after 
eight  o'clock. 

Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  that  one  of  the 
chief  architectural  oddities  of  this  place  was  the  lack  of 
an  entrance  to  the  second  floor  from  the  inside  of  the 
house,  —  the  only  door  to  the  stairway  being  an  outside 
one  at  the  end  of  a  long  narrow  porch  ?  Tom,  in 
advance  of  me,  lamp  in  hand,  opened  the  door  of  the 
dining-room,  gave  a  whistle  of  surprise,  and  began  to 

sing,  - 

"  Come  ferry  me  o'er,  come  ferry  me  o'er, 
Over  the  river  to  Charlie." 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Tom  ? " 

"  Look  and  see  !  " 

I  looked,  and  beheld  the  darkness  of  a  tomb.  There 
was  a  torrent  of  rain  and  wind  rushing  through  the  wet 
fir  trees,  driving  the  flame  of  the  lamp  out  of  the  chim 
ney,  smoking  it  black ;  the  floor  of  the  porch  was  all 
bumps  and  hollows,  —  mostly  hollows,  each  filled  with 
water,  gleaming  in  the  lamplight. 

"  It 's  hideous,  Tom  ;  we  can't  make  it !  " 

"We  've  got  to  make  it !  Faint  heart  ne'er  won  the 
second  floor  of  anything.  I  '11  hold  my  hat  over  the 
light,  you  lock  the  door,  then  we  '11  dash  for  our  lives  !  " 

It  was  no  dash,  I  can  tell  you.  We  went  tiptoeing 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

and  teetering  across  the  sloppy  links  like  a  couple  of 
prize  cakewalkers.  When  at  last  the  goal  was  reached, 
we  looked  at  each  other  in  speechless  amazement.  Such 
an  uproar  was  never  heard  outside  of  bedlam.  Accus 
tomed  to  a  plastered  ceiling,  with  a  garret  above,  this 
pounding  of  the  rain  upon  a  roof  directly  over  our  heads 
was  positively  deafening.  It  was  not  at  all  like  rain,  — 
more  like  a  downpour  of  rattling  bullets  or  cobble 
stones.  Through  the  open  windows  came  the  tumult 
from  outside.  Deer  Leap,  out  of  its  banks,  was  roaring 
like  Niagara ;  the  wind  was  writhing  and  swishing 
through  the  fir  boughs ;  the  spring  at  the  kitchen  was 
a  mighty  cataract,  throwing  a  big  stream  of  water  half 
way  across  the  porch. 

Avoiding  the  eye  of  my  fellow-sufferer,  I  remarked 
indifferently,  "  Sort  of  boisterous,  is  n't  it  ? " 

"  It  does  seem  a  little  so,  — just  at  first." 

"  Yes,  I  meant  just  at  first." 

Truly,  we  could  scarcely  hear  each  other's  voices. 
After  the  lights  were  out,  the  turmoil  and  bluster  were 
even  more  terrifying.  The  dampness  of  the  room  was 
something  awful.  After  a  while  Tom  shouted  through 
the  darkness,  "  Is  n't  it  sweet,  this  gentle  patter  of  the 
rain  upon  the  roof?" 

"  Fine  !  "  I  shrieked ;  "  so  soothing,  —  like  a  lullaby ! " 

"  Oh,  yes !  And  this  Cataract  of  Lodore,  too,  just 
under  a  fellow's  head,  is  a  mighty  nice  thing !  To 
morrow  let's  make  us  some  megaphones." 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

As  there  was  no  hope  of  sleep,  I  fell  a-thinking  of 
the  palmy  days  of  this  ball-room,  when,  as  we  are  told, 
the  devotees  of  the  dance  came  from  twenty  miles 
around  to  tread  a  gay  measure  here.  I  thought  of  the 
nail-keg  we  found  upon  the  dais,  which  had  probably 
been  used  as  a  seat  by  one  of  the  musicians,  as  an  empty 
violin  case  was  leaning  against  it. 

It  seemed  a  most  fitting  time  for  ghosts  to  walk. 
What  if  that  long-ago  violinist  should  come  back  to 
night,  and,  perching  himself  on  the  chair  that  had  ousted 
his  keg,  suddenly  begin  "  to  plonk  and  plunk  and  plink, 
and  to  rosin  up  his  bow,"  and  should  start  up  all  the 
phantom  belles  and  beaux  of  the  shadowy  past,  and  I 
should  hear  slippered  and  pumped  feet  sliding  up  and 
down  the  long  room,  —  should  catch  the  scent  of  ber- 
gamot  and  patchouli  and  other  old-time  flavors  ? 

Just  here  I  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  tempest : 
"  Honors  to  your  partners  !  Join  hands  and  circle  to 
the  left !  Balance  all !  Swing  on  the  corners  !  " 

"  Goodness,  Tom  !  are  you  crazy  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am ;  it 's  just  water  on  the  brain,  I  think. 
But  didn't  you  hear  him, — that  old  fiddler  at  the  head 
of  your  bed,  jerking  off  '  Old  Dan  Tucker,'  and  all  the 
fellows  skating  across  the  room  to  secure  their  part 
ners  ?  Just  to  be  friendly,  I  thought  I  'd  call  off  for 
the  spooks." 

After  a  time  the  deluge  ceased,  and  then  the  ball-room 
became  an  ideal  place  for  sleep.  It  was  delightful  to  lie 

'75 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

there,  listening  to  softly  falling  rain,  night  winds  sough 
ing  through  the  forest,  owls  hooting  in  the  orchard,  - 
nature  music  as  deliciously  lulling  to  the  senses  as  the 
"  drowsy  wine  of  poppies." 

But  the  midnight  adventure  can  no  longer  be 
postponed. 

During  the  night  I  woke  suddenly  without  any  appar 
ent  cause,  but  with  the  sure  consciousness  of  something 
being  wrong,  soon  verified  by  the  strangest  of  sounds,  as 
if  tiny  soft  hands  were  very  gently  patting  time  for  unseen 
dancers,  —  an  awfully  creepy  sound  in  the  dark.  A 
little  later  came  stealthy  footsteps,  nearer  and  nearer, 
seeming  to  approach  the  dais.  Soon  there  was  a  rust 
ling  among  some  clothes  hanging  on  the  wall,  quite 
near,  as  if  they  were  being  fumbled  over.  Flesh  and 
blood  could  endure  no  more. 

"Tom!  Tom!  There's  somebody  in  this  room! 
Get  a  light,  quick  !  " 

"  How  foolish  you  are,  Katharine!  If  you  hear  any 
thing  at  all,  —  which  I  doubt, --it's  only  the  squirrels 
running  over  the  roof." 

"  Don't  stop  now  to  talk  !    Do  hurry  with  the  light ! " 

Reluctantly  and  with  great  deliberation  he  arose, 
muttering  something  about  "idiocy"  and  "spells,"  and 
just  as  he  struck  a  match,  a  horrible  hairy  creature 
bounded  out  of  those  clothes,  leaped  to  the  wall,  and 
ran  along  a  rafter  to  the  comb  of  the  roof. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  what  was  it,  Tom  ? " 

176 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

I  secretly  believed  it  to  be  a  wildcat ;  it  was  such  a 
monster,  with  the  face  of  a  fiend,  eyes  of  fire,  and  wav 
ing  the  big  bushy  tail  of  a  squirrel. 

"  I  'd  shoot  him,"  Tom  said,  rather  indifferently,  "  but 
my  shotgun  is  in  the  barn,  and  just  to-day  I  fired  the 
last  cartridge  from  my  revolver." 

"  Get  my  rifle,"  I  cried,  swelling  with  pride.  A  friend 
visited  us  a  year  ago,  a  fine  sportsman,  who  came  with 
four  guns,  and  when  he  left  he  gave  me  a  lovely  little 
rifle. 

"  Where  is  it  ?  " 

"  Downstairs  in  the  dining-room." 

"All  right !  "  and  off  he  started  with  the  lamp. 

"  No,  you  don't  —  and  leave  me  here  in  the  dark  with 
this  hideous  thing  !  " 

"  Such  a  coward  !  "  but  he  gave  up  the  lamp,  and  went 
blundering  off  in  the  darkness.  After  what  seemed  an 
age,  he  returned,  remarking  with  some  bravado,  as  he 
loaded  up :  "  Now,  my  bold  outlaw,  your  hour  has 
come ! " 

I  held  the  lamp ;  he  fired.  There  was  no  effect 
whatever. 

"  I  thought  you  said  his  hour  had  come  !  " 

"  It  has,  —  if  he  '11  stay  there  long  enough  and  the 
ammunition  holds  out." 

Twice  again  he  shot,  and  then  the  "  thing"  ran  down 
a  rafter  and  was  hidden  from  us  by  the  canopy  above 
the  dais. 

12  I77 


At  this  the  brave  lady  was  encouraged  to  mount  to  the 
top  of  her  bureau  and  try  to  locate  him.  With  lamp 
in  hand,  she  peered  into  the  shadows. 

"  Wait !   I  '11  fix  him  !  " 

Going  into  the  next  room,  Tom  came  back  armed 
with  one  of  the  parts  of  the  quilting-frame  we  found 
here  when  we  came. 

"  Now  then,  just  about  where  is  he  ? " 

"  Close  against  the  side  wall." 

The  quilting-frame  cut  a  wide  swath  of  air,  and 
struck  —  solid  wood.  Running  straight  up  the  rafter 
just  over  my  head  came  the  "  thing,"  —  a  poor 
frightened  rat! 

"  Now,  Tom,  you  hold  the  light  and  I  '11  show  you 
some  Buffalo  Bill  marksmanship."  Drawing  my  trusty 
rifle  to  my  shoulder,  I  shut  both  eyes,  and  fired. 

"  That  was  a  hot  shot,  Katharine !  —  he  must  have 
winked  his  other  eye  at  that !  '  He  snatched  the 
smoking  weapon  from  my  hand  and  fired  again.  The 
rat  humped  his  back,  waved  his  tail  lazily,  and  looked 
down  upon  us  so  dreamily  that  I  really  thought  he 
would  be  asleep  in  another  minute. 

"I  guess  we'll  lay  aside  our  firearms,"  Tom  said, 
"  as  we  have  already  shot  five  holes  through  the  roof. 
He  is  too  much  in  the  shadows ;  we  can  never  hit  him. 
I  '11  see  if  I  can't  punch  him  out  of  there  with  this." 
Mounting  my  bed  with  that  frame,  he  threw  it  like  a 

harpoon  ;   it  went  flying  through   the  room,  and  down 

178 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

at  my  feet,  with  a  dull,  heavy  thud,  fell  the  rat.  Sud 
denly  he  left  the  open,  ran  under  the  bed  and  up  the 
wall  just  back  of  me.  Tom  struck  at  him,  knocked 
a  brass  knob  from  the  top  of  the  bedstead,  and  the 
rat  ran  down  the  wall  near  the  corner  of  the  room. 

"  Pull  the  bed  away,  Katharine,  and  I  '11  give  him  a 
side-wipe  across  the  floor  that  '11  fetch  him  ! " 

I  sent  the  bed  spinning  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
followed  it  up,  and  climbed  to  a  chair.  The  "  side- 
wipe  "  was  made  ;  it  did  n't  fetch  him,  but  it  did  fetch 
down  an  easel  and  a  picture. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Tom,  don't  break  all  the  furniture 
in  the  house  !  Let 's  go  downstairs  ;  don't  let 's  kill 
him  to-night !  ': 

"  A  lot  of  killing  you  're  doing  !  '  Tom  persisted, 
prodding  under  the  washstand. 

"  If  you  're  punching  for  that  rat,  he  is  n't  there, 
he 's  under  that  couch." 

"  Did  you  suppose  I  was  down  on  all  fours  poking 
under  that  thing  for  fun  ?  If  you  M  get  off  your  perch 
and  set  that  lamp  down  and  come  and  pull  this  thing 
out,  I  'd  get  him  here." 

"  Honestly,  Tom,  I  can't.  He  might  run  across  my 
feet." 

"  Well,  do  you  think  I  want  to  chase  this  rat  all 
night  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"Well,  then--" 

179 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Here  the  creature  under  discussion,  taking  advantage 
of  the  family  jar,  dashed  from  his  lair,  ran  across  the 
room,  hid  behind  a  pile  of  magazines,  and  there  met  — 
death. 

As  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  last  act,  the  clock  struck 
one.  The  pursuit  began  at  twelve.  It  was  an  hour  to 
be  remembered. 


1 80 


XX 


I  REALLY  can't  remember  when  I  last  wrote  home, 
but  I  think  it  was  before  the  worst  of  our  rainy 
season,  as  during  the  greater  part  of  that  time  we 
were  hibernating,  sunk  in  a  lethargy  too  profound  to  be 
disturbed  by  overflowing  pigeon-holes  of  unanswered 
letters.  Our  winter  was  a  medley  of  rain,  snow,  hail, 
landslides,  and  floods,  —  amazing  even  to  the  oldest 
inhabitant,  who  promptly  remarked  that  he  had  "  seen 
nothing  like  it  for  twenty-five  years."  We  had  fifty- 
two  successive  days  and  nights  of  rain,  with  frequent 
dashes  of  snow  and  hail  between  showers ;  yet  we  re 
mained  reasonably  calm,  though  the  Noahs,  I  believe, 
took  to  the  ark  after  a  little  dash  of  forty  days. 

The  Winter  rains  were  expected,  and  were  even 
enjoyed ;  it  was  their  continuance  so  far  into  the  Spring 
that  palled  on  us.  The  last  four  weeks  it  rained  steadily 
without  variation.  Day  after  day  we  saw  the  same 
drab  sky,  the  same  gray  rain  dolefully  slanting  across 
the  glen,  veiling  the  hills  and  shutting  out  the  world,  — 
a  monotony  that  not  only  depressed  but  stupefied. 

All  this  surplus  rain-water,  together  with  that  caused 
by  the  melting  of  the  snow  in  the  mountains,  produced 

fearful  high  waters  and  floods.     And  really  I  was  half 

181 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

glad  of  it,  -  -  glad  of  anything  coming  to  break  the  dull 
uniformity  of  our  lives.  I  was  ready  just  then  to  reach 
out  a  welcoming  hand  to  floods,  earthquakes,  cyclones, 
or  any  other  excitement  that  might  happen  along. 

Deer  Leap,  our  dashing  mountain  stream,  though 
drinking  heavily  for  some  weeks  and  rather  ominously 
full,  had  up  to  this  time  kept  his  bed,  showing  no  par 
ticularly  riotous  spirit.  But  with  the  first  hint  of  the 
coming  of  the  flood  he  began  tossing  and  tumbling 
restlessly,  and  presently  he  broke  loose  from  his  restrain 
ing  banks  and  went  plunging  through  the  alders  and 
maples,  whisking,  whirling,  and  foaming,  dealing  de 
struction  right  and  left,  demolishing  cattle-sheds,  poul 
try-houses,  and  pasture  fence.  He  then  made  a  dash 
for  the  bridges,  destroying  one  and  trying  hard  for  the 
other,  blustering  and  raging  about  it  for  a  day  and  night, 
hurling  great  logs  against  it,  savagely  bumping  the  floor, 
lifting  a  part  of  the  planks,  pulling  and  pushing  and 
tugging  fiercely  at  it  ;  but  though  it  trembled  and 
swayed,  it  stood  its  ground  bravely,  aided  by  strong 
chains  lashing  it  to  the  trees. 

Our  meadow  looked  a  dreary  waste.  The  trees  and 
bushes  seemed  growing  out  of  a  lake.  We  one  day  saw 
fourteen  Angora  goats  carried  through  this  shallow  sea. 
Fortunately  they  were  thrown  upon  a  little  knoll  in  a 
thicket  of  briers,  where  sharp  thorns  caught  their 
fleecy  coats  and  held  them  fast  until  their  owner  came 

to  the  rescue.       In  being  released    from    their   thorny 

182 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

entanglement  the  poor  things  were  half  shorn.  Little 
white  flags  of  mohair  still  flutter  from  those  bushes  in 
commemoration  of  the  event. 

All  the  known  springs  were  gushing  noisily,  and  many 
new  ones  were  developing  in  unheard-of  places.  One 
day  little  streams  of  water  came  coursing  down  the 
hillside  just  back  of  the  house,  gradually  broadening, 
then  soon  united,  forming  a  swiftly  flowing  shallow 
river  of  bright  orange  color,  —  the  coloring  material 
furnished,  we  supposed,  by  the  red  soil  of  Mount  Nebo 
above.  It  was  the  strangest  sight  imaginable,  remind 
ing  us  of  the  flood  at  Glen  Quharity  that  Barrie  tells 
of  in  the  story  of  "  The  Little  Minister."  Indeed, 
many  of  the  scenes  here  were  as  wild  as  those  the 
"  Dominie  "  looked  out  upon  from  the  schoolhouse  in 
the  Glen. 

If  Mrs.  Noah  had  great  yellow  waves  of  thick 
muddy  water  dashing  against  her  habitation,  it  *s  no 
wonder  she  welcomed  the  coming  of  the  ark.  I  told 
Tom  he  really  must  do  something,  or  we  should  be 
forced  to  take  to  the  hills,  as  I  believed  the  house 
would  be  swept  into  Deer  Leap  and  carried  by  the 
high  tide  down  to  the  Willamette  and  from  there  out 
to  sea.  Though  he  said,  "  I  should  think  you  'd  like 
that,  you  've  always  wanted  a  house-boat,"  he  at  once 
began  digging  canals.  When  he  had  finished,  he  called 
me  out  to  see  how  madly  the  water  was  dashing  through 
them. 

183 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

At  first  I  could  see  nothing  but  Tom  himself,  —  plas 
tered  with  yellow  mud  from  head  to  foot,  features  hidden 
and  hair  decorated  with  it. 

A  bright  thought  struck  me.  "Tom,  get  the  wooden 
trough  out  of  the  milk-house,  and  .that  pole  by  the 
alder,  and  see  if  you  can't  shove  yourself  around  a  little. 
I  might  fancy  you  a  tall  and  shadowy  gondolier,  and 
half  believe  ourselves  in  Venice,  —  especially  if  you 
would  first  wash  your  face." 

"  Yes,  and  we  '11  be  in  Venice  indeed  when  I  make 
such  an  idiot  of  myself  as  that !  " 

I  've  always  been  sorry  that  he  declined  to  embark. 
The  current  of  the  lagoon  was  surprisingly  swift,  and 
would  have  carried  his  craft  into  the  spring-run,  which 
a  little  lower  down  in  the  yard  has  a  fall  of  five  or  six 
feet.  To  see  Mr.  Thomas  Graham  shooting  the  rapids 
in  the  milk-trough  would  have  made  glad  my  day,  dark 
as  the  skies  were  then. 

During  this  flood-time  we  often  heard  the  dull  roar 
of  the  ocean  ;  the  wind  blew  straight  from  it  with  the 
force  almost  of  a  hurricane.  The  house  shook  in  the 
fierce  gusts ;  great  branches  of  the  alders  snapped  ofr" 
and  came  tumbling  down  in  the  yard.  Occasionally  a 
big  tree,  uprooted  by  wind  and  water,  fell  with  a  tre 
mendous  crash. 

It  was  fine  to  hear  the  rush  of  wind  through  the 
forest,  to  see  the  tall  firs  tossing  their  plumy  heads, 

wrestling  so  fiercely  with  one  another  that  many  came 

184 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

out  of  the  fray  with  broken  limbs  and  not  a  few  head 
less.  Near  the  house  one  broke  partly  off,  lodging 
against  its  neighbor.  Swaying  back  and  forth  in  the 
gale,  they  made  a  most  hideous,  rasping,  screeching 
sound,  like  the  screaming  of  caged  beasts  in  a  menage 
rie.  Tom  said  those  trees  would  be  a  treasure  for 
a  "  shivaree "  party,  —  that  a  resined  scantling  drawn 
across  a  pine  box  was  but  an  asolian  harp  in  comparison. 

In  daylight,  when  one  could  see  what  was  going  on, 
it  was  n't  so  bad ;  but  at  night  it  was  something  fearful. 
There  was  no  light  of  moon  or  stars ;  only  darkness 
and  the  rush  and  roar  of  wind  and  water,  the  lashing 
and  swish-swashing  of  firs,  with  an  accompaniment  of 
shrieks  from  the  crippled  one  and  his  fellow-sufferer. 

Though  rather  frightened  at  times,  I  liked  the  excite 
ment  and  exhilaration  of  all  this,  and  I  think  Tom  and 
Bert  did  —  if  they  would  admit  it.  The  effort  to  save 
buildings,  fences,  bridges,  etc.,  stirred  their  blood,  and 
gave  them  something  new  to  think  and  talk  about. 

The  uneventful  days  preceding  this  stormy  period 
were  far  worse  to  bear.  .During  ten  weeks  I  never 
exchanged  a  word  with  a  neighbor  woman,  nor  even 
saw  one  pass ;  and  I  saw  only  three  men,  all  horsemen. 
The  first — a  smooth,  round-faced,  large  man,  wearing  a 
plaid  shawl  —  was  so  motherly-looking  that  we  set  him 
down  as  a  country  doctor.  The  second  rider,  gaunt  and 
thin,  with  a  stuffed  gunny-sack  for  a  saddle,  had  a  bag 

of  flour  lying  across  his  steed  ;  we  concluded  hunger 

185 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

had  drawn  him  from  his  lair.  The  last  to  pass  was 
a  stoop-shouldered,  hollow-chested  stripling,  singing 
"  Hold  the  Fort,  for  I  am  Coming." 

These  are  the  only  human  beings,  outside  our  own 
families,  that  I  saw  from  the  last  of  January  until  near 
the  middle  of  April.  Tom  tells  a  rather  mythical  story 
of  seeing  emerge  from  the  melancholy  yews  down  in 
the  canyon  a  shadowy  hound,  followed  by  a  brown- 
corduroyed  man,  who  called  up  to  him,  "  I  reckon  you 
hain't  seen  no  stray  Angorys  up  this  way  lately  ?  '  As 
this  story  lacks  verification,  we  think  Thomas,  by  over- 
long  living  in  the  woods,  is  beginning  to  "see  things." 

In  those  gloomy  days  darkness  descended  upon  us 
about  four  in  the  afternoon,  making  woefully  long 
evenings.  At  first  we  were  glad,  as  it  gave  us  a  chance 
to  read  our  Christmas  books  and  the  piles  of  magazines 
and  papers  saved  up  from  the  busy  season.  After  that 
for  a  while  we  enjoyed  re-reading  our  favorites  among 
the  old  books.  Then  came  a  time  when  the  "restless 
pulse  "  of  ennui  could  not  be  quieted  even  by  good 
literature. 

I  '11  just  lift  the  curtain  and  give  you  a  glimpse  of 
one  of  our  winter  evenings,  which  will  be  a  fair  sample 
of  the  other  hundred  or  two.  Open  wide  your  eyes 
and  look  across  the  rainy  night  away  up  into  the  dark 
fir  forests  of  Oregon.  Do  you  see  a  faint  light  shining 
and  wavering  among  the  wet  leaves  ?  Well,  that  glim 
mer  is  from  a  student  lamp  in  front  of  the  big  stone 

1 86 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

fireplace  of  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs.  At  the  left 
of  it,  in  an  old  Morris  chair,  sits  Tom,  silently  and  dili 
gently  reading.  A  low  willow  rocker  on  the  right  is 
occupied  by  Katharine,  also  silently  and  diligently  read 
ing.  Between  the  two,  upon  a  black  fur  rug,  still  as  a 
shadow,  lies  Sheila,  dreaming  of  summer-time  and  the 
whirr  of  pheasant  wings. 

Hours  pass.  The  Morris-chair  reader  lays  his  book 
aside,  draws  nearer  the  fire,  and,  replenishing  it,  remarks 
that  it  must  be  near  midnight.  Even  as  he  speaks,  the 
clock  chimes  eight.  Katharine  closes  her  book,  seeks 
the  opposite  chimney-corner,  and  there  they  sit,  like 
a  couple  of  heathen  gods  carved  in  wood,  solemnly 
staring  into  the  fire,  which,  having  just  swallowed  a 
fresh  dose  of  turpentine  and  pitch,  snaps  and  crackles 
so  alarmingly  that  Sheila,  suspecting  a  gun,  retires  to  a 
distant  corner. 

Presently  the  "  brazen  image "  on  the  left  remarks 
abruptly,  "I'm  as  hungry  as  a  bear ;  I  wish  we  had 
some  raw  oysters  !  ' 

"  You  might  as  well  wish  for  the  apples  of  Hes- 
perides." 

"  Just  now  I  prefer  the  common  ones  of  Oregon. 
Where  are  they  ?  I  '11  get  some." 

"  All  gone  at  the  house." 

"  Great  Scott !  Then  there  is  n't  one  on  the  place, 
and  no  more  to  come  until  next  July." 

"  And  we  're  twenty  miles  from  oranges  and  bananas, 

187 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Tom,  and  the  roads   hub-deep  with  good   red  Oregon 
mud." 

"I  11  buy  an  air-ship  before  I'm  a  year  older  !  ' 
Contemplation  of  the  fire  is  silently  resumed;  no 
sound,  save  a  little  secret  whispering  among  the  flames, 
the  muffled  throbbing  of  rain  on  the  mossy  roof,  and 
the  steady  drip  from  the  overflowing  eaves  to  the  wet 
porches. 

"  Just  listen,  Tom  !  Drip,  drip,  drip,  everlastingly ! 
No  wonder  the  gloom  of  this  thing  has  crept  into  our 
hearts  and  looks  out  of  our  eyes.  It 's  as  bad  as  Chesny- 
wold,  in  Lincolnshire." 

"  Not  quite,  — we  haven't  any  Ghosts'  Walk  !  " 
"  No ;  but  I  wish   to  goodness  we  had,  and  that  a 
whole  procession   of  phantoms   paraded   there  nightly, 
spouting  fire  and  brimstone,  winding  up  with  the  car 
magnole  in   blue  flames." 

"  Whew  !  What's  the  carmagnole  ? " 
"  I  don't  exactly  know,  —  something  fiendish,  though; 
and  I  'd  actually  be  glad  to  look  out  at  midnight  and 
see  a  couple  of  dozen  airy  apparitions,  lit  with  phospho 
rus,  cutting  the  pigeon-wing  under  these  dripping  black 
firs.  We  would  get  a  thrill  or  two  at  least,  and  that 
would  be  something  just  now." 

"  Katharine,  are  you  getting  tired  of  Oregon?  " 
"  Tired  of  Oregon  !     You  know  I  love  its  very  name. 
I  'm  only  tired  of  sullen  skies,  rain,  mud,  myself,  and 

—  you." 

1 88 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Thanks.  Your  frankness  emboldens  me  to  confess 
that  there  have  been  dark  moments  of  late  when  your 
society  seemed  to  me  to  lack  something  of  the  charm 
of  the  Sorceress  of  the  Nile." 

"Very  likely.  I  never  set  myself  up  for  a  sorceress. 
I  know  I  am  stupid ;  so  are  you.  We  need  friends, 
mirth,  music,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  and  it 
would  n't  greatly  damage  our  immortal  souls  even  to 
see  a  good  play.  Oh,  Tom  !  just  imagine  that  we  are 
sitting  this  very  minute  in  a  brilliantly  lighted  theatre, 
the  perfume  of  flowers  in  the  air,  well-dressed  people 
all  about  us,  wealth  and  beauty  in  the  boxes,  waves  of 
melody  floating  up  from  the  orchestra,  one  final  flourish 
and  crash,  and  lo  !  the  curtain  rises." 

Adding  more  fuel  to  the  fire  and  carefully  brushing 
the  hearth,  Tom  remarked  :  "  What  do  you  say  to 
cards  ?  We  have  all  the  Sarah  Battle  essentials." 

"  Not  all,  Tom.  The  '  rigor  of  the  game '  would 
be  lacking  ;  for  you  well  know  that  I  always  did,  do 
now,  and  ever  shall  hate  cards." 

"  Well,  then,  as  gardening-time  is  not  far  off,  sup 
pose  we  look  over  a  seed  catalogue  and  select  such  seeds 
as  we  shall  need." 

"  Good  heavens  !  A  seed  catalogue  !  I  want  excite 
ment,  but  I  could  n't  stand  anything  quite  so  hilarious 
as  that." 

"  I  'm  sure  you   have  often  said  there  was  nothing 

more  fascinating." 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  Possibly,  when  the  sun  was  shining  and  birds  sing 
ing  ;  but  to  sit  in  this  dreariness  and  watch  you  slowly 
turn  the  pages  and  hear  you  ask,  *  Now  about  cucum 
bers  :  shall  we  get  the  white  spine  or  the  long  greens  ? 
Onions  :  the  yellow  Danver  is  a  good  onion,  don't  you 
think  ?  Radishes  :  English  Breakfast.  Didn't  we  have 
some  seed  left  over  ?  Beans :  I  '11  order  the  bunch 
kind,  —  the  Golden  Wax,  I  guess/  Honestly,  Tom, 
I  could  n't  listen  to-night  to  that  lingo,  clear  through 
alphabetically  from  asparagus  to  watermelons,  and  live." 

"  Well,  that  was  my  trump  card.  I  5ve  nothing 
more  to  offer."  Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  began 
singing,  — 

"  I  'm  wearing  awa',  Jean, 
Like  snaw  when  it 's  thaw,  Jean." 

After  an  interval  the  doleful  one  remarks  :  "  I  've 
thought  of  something,  Tom,  that  would  be  absorbing 
work,  for  — 

*  There  's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There 's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean.' 

Let 's  write  a  ghost  story  !  " 

"  All  right.  I  've  long  felt  in  my  bones  that  I  could 
write  a  rattling  good  ghost  story.  We  '11  collaborate." 

"  Oh !   I  think  I  understand." 

The  inspired  ones  seize  pencil  and  paper,  and  at  once 
become  absorbed  in  plots  and  plans.  Curtain  falls  at 

8.30   p.  M. 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

We  really  did  try  the  ghost  story.  It  was  about  the 
only  fun  we  had  last  winter.  We  wrote  alternate 
chapters,  Tom  illustrating  the  whole  with  pencil 
sketches.  It  is  a  work  of  almost  supernatural  power, 
and  destined  to  live,  we  think,  and  rank  with  the  really 
great  literature  of  the  world.  It  will  appear  about  the 
holidays  —  some  other  year. 


191 


XXI 

AFTER  the  slackening  of  the  Winter  rains, 
which  I  tried  to  picture  to  you  in  my  last 
letter,  there  came  an  aftermath  of  light 
showers  and  lovely  mists,  soft,  filmy,  floating  about  the 
mountain  mists.  Nothing  else  in  all  these  beautiful 
Oregon  hills  seems  quite  so  near  and  dear  to  me  as 
these  mists,  so  sympathetic,  so  companionable,  and  yet 
so  indescribable  ;  a  witchery  of  nature,  too  changeful 
and  elusive  to  be  caught  by  words0  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  much  I  love  them,  nor  how  strangely  they  appeal 
to  my  better  self.  Often,  when  annoyed  by  household 
cares,  and  the  many  — 

"  Little  sharp  vexations, 
The  briers  that  catch  and  fret," 

I  look  out  of  my  kitchen  window  and  see  these  tender 
gray  mists  quietly  rising  from  the  encircling  hills,  like 
clouds  of  incense  to  the  Great  Spirit.  Tears  "  rise  in 
my  heart  and  gather  to  my  eyes,"  my  rebellious  mood 
is  softened,  my  worries  slip  away,  peace  steals  into  my 
heart,  and  I  am  comforted  and  helped  as  by  the  silent 
sympathetic  pressure  of  the  hand  of  a  friend.  I  cannot 

analyze  the  mysterious  charm  of  these  dreamy,  brooding 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

shadows,  nor  define  what  it  is  they  say  to  me,  nor  make 
clear  even  to  myself  the  secret  of  their  silent  ministry. 
I  only  know  they  soothe  and  tranquillize  and  restore. 
Perhaps  the  Father,  mindful  of  the  solitariness  of  his 
mountain  children,  sends  these  soft  wings  of  peace  to 
hover  over  them,  in  token  of  His  unforgetting  love  and 
care. 

If  through  an  unkind  fate  I  should  suffer  banishment 
from  this  land  of  enchantment,  I  know  I  should  be 
homesick  day  and  night  for  the  "  Sisters  of  the  gray 
veil,"  as  Tom  calls  them.  He  often  comes  in  saying, 
"The  gray  veils  have  camped  among  the  firs  to-day,"  or 
"  The  Sisters  of  the  gray  veil  are  climbing  the  hills  this 
morning,"  and  somehow  the  name  satisfies  my  sense  of 
kinship  with  them. 

About  this  time  I  enjoyed  some  delightful  walks  with 
my  new  acquaintance,  the  young  lady  who  gave  me 
Sheila.  She  had  just  returned  from  a  distant  ranch 
where  she  had  gone  to  spend  the  holiday  season,  and 
where  she  had  been  imprisoned  by  high  waters  for 
many  weeks.  We  call  this  young  lady  "  Di  Vernon," 
because  of  her  adventurous  spirit  and  love  of  out-door 
life.  We  met  her  once  or  twice  soon  after  our  arrival 
here,  but  before  we  had  become  fairly  acquainted  she 
went  to  visit  friends  in  Colorado,  where  she  remained 
many  months,  and  we  did  not  meet  again  until  about  a 
year  ago.  If  she  had  been  at  home  during  our  long 
winter,  we  should  have  been  less  lonely,  as  she,  in  short 
13  193 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

skirts  and  rubber  boots,  roams  these  hills  regardless  of 
weather.  Three  dogs  are  her  inseparable  companions, 
—  Texas,  a  great  fierce  fellow,  with  a  deep  and 
terrible  voice ;  Shady,  a  hound,  lean,  lank,  and 
brown  —  as  his  name  implies ;  and  June,  a  Scotch 
collie.  The  latter  is  a  beauty,  yellow  and  white  in 
color,  and  clean,  fluffy,  and  fringy,  like  a  prize  chrysan 
themum  ;  she  has  a  pretty  face,  too,  with  big,  luminous 
brown  eyes,  set  in  a  tiny  circle  of  black,  as  if  she  had 
coquettishly  touched  them  up  with  India  ink.  I  really 
believe  there  is  no  handsomer  dog  in  Oregon,  —  with 
one  notable  exception. 

Miss  Vernon  rides  a  fleet  little  Indian  pony,  without 
a  saddle,  — just  a  surcingle,  with  stirrup  attached.  She 
uses  a  queer  sort  of  bridle,  with  reins  of  braided  raw 
hide,  and  a  cruel-looking  curb  bit ;  and,  strangest  of 
all,  she  rides  with  a  spur.  When  I  first  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  shoe  embellished  with  that  shining  metal 
wheel,  I  grew  fairly  dizzy.  But,  oh,  how  she  rides  ! 
Flying  along  at  a  furious  pace,  leaping  over  logs  and 
even  fences,  how  she  manages  to  stick  on  is  a  mystery 
to  me. 

The  hill  women  all  ride,  and  ride  well,  using  only 
the  surcingle,  though  sometimes  it  is  buckled  around  a 
blanket  or  a  sheepskin.  The  only  side-saddle  we  have 
seen  here  came  up  from  the  valley,  and  we  all  looked 
upon  it  with  contempt.  You  may  think  that  as  they 
ignore  the  saddle  they  have  adopted  the  modern  method 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

of  riding  astride ;  but  they  have  n't.  Such  dashing 
horsemanship  among  women  has  greatly  astonished  us, 
and  our  interest  in  it  never  wanes.  When  I  hear  gal 
loping  hoofs,  and  see  through  the  trees  the  flash  of 
a  sunbonnet  or  streaming  veil,  I  stand  stock-still  in 
admiration. 

But  I  am  straying  far  from  our  own  particular  en 
chantress,  who  greatly  surprised  us  during  her  first  call. 
In  speaking  of  this  isolated  life,  I  had  asked  what  her 
amusements  were  here. 

"  Oh,  I  ride,  fish,  and  hunt,  and  I  'm  fond  of  dogs 
and  horses,  and  as  we  have  a  lot  of  them  I  spend  a  good 
deal  of  my  time  with  them.  I  always  help  break  the 
bunchgrassers,  and  that 's  exciting." 

Bunchgrassers  !  I  had  never  before  heard  that  word, 
and  wondered  if  she  could  possibly  mean  jack-rabbits. 
I  have  never  seen  any,  but  have  always  associated  them 
with  bunchgrass.  But  why  should  they  want  to  break 
them  ?  I  kept  still  and  waited  for  light. 

When  I  had  learned  that  she  was  talking  of  horses,  I 
made  bold  to  ask,  "  Why  bunchgrassers  ?  "  and  was  told 
they  were  horses  that  had  been  running  wild  on  the 
range. 

Tom,  who  had  been  an  interested  listener  to  all  this, 
asked  her  if  she  could  wield  the  lassoo. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  my  father  taught  me  that 
when  I  was  quite  a  young  girl,  though  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  an  expert." 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

While  she  discussed  horsebreaking  methods  with 
Tom,  I  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  It  was  hard  to 
reconcile  such  deeds  with  the  doer.  She  was  "  like  the 
hazel  twig,  straight  and  slender,  and  as  brown  as  hazel 
nuts,"  with  a  pleasant  voice,  a  charming  smile,  a  frank, 
cordial  manner,  entirely  free  from  self-consciousness  ; 
was  well  gowned  in  dark  blue  cloth,  wore  a  Rough 
Rider  hat  of  tan  color,  with  gauntlets  to  match,  and 
tucked  in  her  belt  was  a  yellow  daffodil. 

As  she  discoursed  enthusiastically  of  ropes,  thongs, 
slipknots,  and  nooses,  I  remembered  that  only  a  few 
minutes  before  in  our  talk  she  had  quoted  from  "  The 
Birds  of  Killingworth  "  and  from  "  The  Bonnie  Brier 
Bush,"  and  so  my  wonder  grew. 

When  she  left  us  we  sat  for  a  moment  looking  at  each 
other  dumbly.  Then  Tom  remarked,  "  Exit  Saint 
Cecilia,  the  female  bronco-buster." 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed,  Tom,  to  speak  in  that  way  of 
one  of  my  visitors  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Katharine,  —  I  meant  that  as  a  compli 
ment.  Though  she  talked  of  the  overturning  of  wild 
horses,  she  certainly  looked  the  gentlest  of  saints.  She 
is  a  new  type,  and  I  like  her  immensely.  She  's  a  thou 
sand  times  more  interesting  than  such  girls  as  we  have 
known,  talking  eternally  of  receptions  and  clubs,  of 
whist  and  theatre  parties,  of  pink  teas  and  green  lunch 
eons,  color  schemes  that  were  poems,  and  gowns  that 

were  dreams,  and  that  sort  of  gush.      Now  this  girl  is 

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LETTERS   FROM   AN   OREGON    RANCH 

a  real  Di  Vernon,  a  novelty,  and  a  most  refreshing 
one." 

Tom  had  hit  upon  a  name  that  seemed  rightfully  to 
belong  to  her,  and  we  have  called  her  by  it  ever  since. 
We  have  learned  that  she  is  a  very  successful  trout-fisher, 
and  as  a  discoverer  of  bee-trees  has  no  equal  in  the  hills. 
She  has  no  fear  of  bees,  and  always  helps  to  take  the 
honey  ;  is  a  fine  marksman,  —  has  a  rifle  and  a  shotgun 
of  her  own,  and  can  bag  as  many  pheasants  and  quail  as 
her  brother  or  uncle  when  out  with  them  on  a  hunting 
trip.  She  often  goes  with  them  coon-hunting  at  night, 
when  it  is  so  dark  they  have  to  carry  lanterns.  Once 
when  she  was  out  hunting  alone  in  our  woods,  the  dogs 
got  on  the  track  of  a  wildcat,  chased  it  half  the  morn 
ing,  and  finally  treed  it.  She  followed  them,  found  it 
high  among  the  branches,  fired,  and  brought  it  down. 

"Of  course,  Di,  you  kept  its  skin  for  a  rug?" 

"  No  ;  sold  it." 

"  You  foolish  girl !     Why  did  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  to  get  some  more  money  to  buy  some  more 
ammunition  to  kill  some  more  wildcats  !  "  she  answered 
laughingly. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  tell  you  that  a  few  years  ago  she 
killed  a  deer,  -  -  her  first,  and,  I  am  glad  to  say,  her  last. 
In  telling  me  of  it  she  said  :  "  Never  again  while  I  live 
will  I  point  a  gun  toward  a  deer ;  for  that  poor  thing, 
as  it  lay  dying,  turned  its  beautiful  head  in  my  direction, 

and  two  big  reproachful  eyes  looked  me  squarely  in  my 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

face,  and  I  felt  myself  the  cruel  murderess  that  I  was.  I 
had  no  pride  in  that  shot.  I  went  home  ashamed  and 
in  tears,  haunted  by  those  dying  eyes.  But  I  've  saved 
the  life  of  many  a  one  since  in  atonement  for  that  crime." 

"  How,  Di  ?  " 

"Very  easily, --just  by  misdirecting  their  pursuers. 
You  know  there  is  a  regular  deer-run  on  our  place,  and 
many  a  time  when  I  have  been  strolling  through  the 
fields  or  along  the  banks  of  the  stream  I  've  seen  one  of 
those  poor  frightened  creatures  come  flying  out  of  the 
woods  with  death  at  his  heels,  clear  the  brook  at  a 
bound,  and,  though  ready  to  drop  with  exhaustion,  not 
daring  to  pause  even  a  second  for  a  drop  of  pure  water 
to  cool  its  throat.  The  hunters  are  seldom  far  behind, 
and  when  they  come  crashing  through  the  underbrush 
and  see  me,  they  naturally  ask  whether  I  have  seen  the 
deer  and  which  way  it  ran.  That 's  my  opportunity, 
and  I  rise  to  meet  it. 

"  *  The  deer  ?  Yes,  I  saw  it  about  three  minutes  ago. 
It  jumped  this  stream  where  that  alder  stands  and  ran 
straight  up  the  canyon.'  Or,  '  It  ran  across  the  meadow, 
leaped  the  fence  and  entered  the  opposite  woods  just 
between  those  two  tall  dead  firs.' 

"  *  Oh,  thank  you,  miss  !  thank  you  !  '  they  gasp  ex 
citedly,  as  they  dash  off — in  the  wrong  direction.  I  sup 
pose  I  ought  to  suffer  remorse  for  the  lie  I  have  told, 
but  I  don't ;  I  know  that  I  have  saved  the  life  of  a 

hunted  wild  thing,  and  I  feel  glad  to  my  finger-tips." 

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LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Our  young  lady  knows  these  hills  and  woods  and 
streams  like  a  book.  She  knows  the  haunts  of  the  wild- 
flowers,  but  not  always  their  names,  -  -  to  my  regret,  for, 
not  learning  them  of  her,  I  despair  of  learning  them 
at  all.  She  it  was  who  told  us  of  the  rhododendrons 
and  where  they  grew ;  it  was  four  miles  farther  back  in 
the  mountains  ;  a  part  of  the  way  there  was  no  road* 
only  a  tangled  trail,  the  last  half-mile  straight  up. 
Though  eager  to  go  at  once  to  that  field  Elysian,  my 
ardor  cooled  somewhat  as  I  thought  of  the  walk  of 
eight  miles,  part  of  it  a  straight  climb,  with  active 
housework  before  and  after  taking.  I  decided  the  rho 
dodendrons  of  the  mountains  must  come  to  Mahomet. 
And  come  they  did  ;  for  Bert,  after  hearing  of  them, 
never  really  enjoyed  a  good  night's  rest  until  he  had 
scaled  the  heights  crowned  by  those  blushing  rose-trees. 
He  returned  from  his  trip  late  in  the  evening,  footsore 
and  weary,  but  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  declaring  he 
had  seen  the  most  wonderful  sight  in  all  the  world. 
"  Fully  a  half-acre  of  those  magnificent  blooms !  Just 
think  of  it  ! --a  pink-canopied  island  in  a  sea  of  green!" 

He  had  carried  a  great  arm-load  of  their  flowery 
branches  all  that  distance,  and  for  the  next  ten  days 
"  rose-pink  rhododendron  bells,  with  narrow  leaves  of 
satin's  sheen,"  glorified  and  illumined  this  old  box-house. 

We  were  surprised  and  pleased  to  find  our  new  friend 
a  most  intelligent  and  appreciative  reader  of  good  lit 
erature.  The  books  in  her  home,  though  few,  are  of 

i99 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

the  best,  and  have  been  so  thoroughly  and  thoughtfully 
read  that  she  seems  to  know  them  by  heart.  She 
is  a  good  comrade,  and  we  enjoyed  many  delight 
ful  walks  during  the  time  of  mists  of  which  I  have 
written.  As  there  were  still  frequent  showers,  and  the 
ground  was  well  soaked  by  the  Winter  rains,  I  followed 
her  example,  donning  a  pair  of  rubber  boots  which 
Tom  had  bought  for  me  to  wear  during  "snake  week." 

A  rainy-day  walk  in  town  is  an  uncomfortable  experi 
ence  compared  with  our  free-and-easy  hill  excursions. 
We  wear  old  soft  felt  hats,  and  our  most  disreputable 
jackets,  and  gowns  with  skirts  reaching  but  little  below 
our  boot-tops.  Unhampered  by  gloves  and  umbrellas, 
we  swing  along  with  the  mist  in  our  faces,  as  happy 
as  gypsies.  Four  barking  dogs  go  frisking  ahead,  so 
insanely  gleeful  they  must  needs  run  back  very  often  to 
leap  on  us  with  muddy  feet,  just  to  ask  if  this  is  n't  a 
lark  and  if  we  are  n't  glad  they  let  us  come. 

As  we  skirt  the  red-furrowed  fields,  hugging  the  old 
rail-fence  for  the  sake  of  a  grassy  path,  frightened  quails 
go  scurryin'g  off  through  the  tall  weeds  and  tangled  briers, 
while  from  near-by  thickets,  with  a  rush  of  wings  that 
is  almost  a  roar,  startled  China  pheasants  fly  up  and  over, 
croaking  as  hoarsely  as  though  an  epidemic  of  sore  throat 
were  raging  among  them. 

Our  foot-path  leads  straight  to  the  woods,  the  entrance 
barred  only  by  a  few  mossy  poles.  We  slide  back  the 
two  middle  ones,  and  gracefully  tumble  through  the 


200 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

opening.  Our  impatient  four-footed  friends,  who  long 
before  had  leaped  that  barrier,  plunging  into  the  forest's 
fringing  undergrowth,  were  doubtless  already  engaged 
in  a  still  hunt,  as  no  sound  came  from  them.  As  we 
struggle  through  the  dripping  bushes,  rejoicing  in  both 
their  baptism  and  their  benediction,  and  enter  the  dusky 
atmosphere  of  the  real  woods,  where  the  stately  trees 
stand  in  crowded  columns,  and  catch  that  first  cool  wave 
of  scented  silence,  we  are  apt  to  talk  compassionately  of 
city  dwellers,  all  heaped  and  huddled  together,  with 
nothing  but  a  little  carpentry  or  masonry  between  them. 
I  think  of  all  such  pityingly,  as  I  stand  in  the  solitude  of 
the  pointed  firs,  crushing  their  green  aromatic  needles  in 
my  hands,  burying  my  face  in  them  to  catch  their  full 
est  and  sweetest  perfume ;  and  then  I  thank  the  kindly 
star  that  guided  us  across  plain  and  desert  and  mountain 
into  these  glorious  hills  of  Oregon. 


201 


XXII 

I  WANT  to  tell  you  something  more  about  our 
walks.  Tom  and  I  have  a  couple  of  light,  tough 
cedar  alpenstocks,  which  we  regard  as  very  helpful 
in  hill  climbing ;  and  I  like  them  for  another  reason. 
In  the  end  of  each  is  a  very  sharp  spike,  which  I  have 
secretly  thought  would  be  of  service  if  I  should  chance 
to  meet  one  of  the  furry  folk  of  the  forest,  and  find  it 
necessary  to  engage  him  in  single-handed  combat. 

When  Di  Vernon  joined  me  on  these  excursions,  it 
seemed  but  courteous  to  offer  her  one  of  them.  She 
carried  it  twice ;  on  its  third  presentation  she  remarked, 
"  If  it  won't  hurt  your  feelings,  I  'd  rather  not  take  that 
pole."  Pole  indeed  !  my  nice,  smooth,  sand-papered, 
cedar  alpenstock  !  Rather  chagrined,  I  asked,  "  Why? 
Don't  you  like  it  ?  "  "  No  ;  I  don't  care  much  for  it. 
You  *see  I  'm  accustomed  to  the  hills,  have  climbed 
them  from  childhood,  and  I  really  have  no  use  for  it." 
I  had  observed  that  she  carried  it  like  a  music-roll  — 
under  her  arm. 

"  I  '11  venture  to  say,"  she  added,  "  that  you  never 
have  seen  a  native  of  the  hills  walking  with  one  of  these 
poles ;  only  newcomers  carry  them." 


GIANT    FIR-TREES,   OREGON    FORESTS 
«  We  enter  the  dusky  atmosphere  of  the  big  trees  "  (page  203) 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

Though  humbled  by  this  "  plain  talk  to  plain 
people,"  I  had  my  own  reasons  for  clinging  to  my 
"  pole,"  and  so  I  clung.  I  find,  however,  that  I  carry 
it  less  like  a  flagstaff,  and  note  a  growing  tendency  to 
trail  it. 

The  walks  here  are  all  so  interesting  that  we  often 
have  difficulty  in  deciding  which  to  take.  We  some 
times  leave  it  to  the  dogs.  If  they  scamper  away  across 
the  sodden,  spongy  meadow,  we  know  they  are  bound 
for  the  canyon,  and  we  cheerfully  follow. 

Near  the  stream  we  enter  a  narrow,  winding  path, 
padded  with  brown  wet  leaves,  bordered  by  willow, 
maple,  ash,  and  alder  trees ;  while  crowding  among 
these  grow  smaller  trees,  —  wild  cherry,  Indian  peach, 
chittam  vine  bark  and  hazel,  with  elder,  wild  syringa, 
currant,  and  blackberry  bushes  ;  the  wild  rose,  too,  with 
an  infinite  variety  of  other  shrubs  that  love  to  haunt  the 
banks  of  Deer  Leap. 

This  difficult  path  is  made  even  more  difficult  in 
places  by  curving  boughs  of  vine  maple  and  the  palm- 
like  branches  of  young  firs.  We  must  needs  advance 
crouchingly  here,  hoisting  the  green,  sagging  roof  above 
our  heads,  learning  through  its  showery  protests  that 
sagging  is  not  its  only  defect. 

Soon  after  escaping  from  this  troublesome  tangle, 
we  enter  the  dusky  atmosphere  of  the  big  trees.  This 
canyon,  Nell,  is  a  wild  and  eerie  region,  a  veritable 

"ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  wier,"  just  the  place  for 

203 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

hobgoblins  and  spooks.  I  avoid  hugging  the  trees  lest 
a  withered  arm  with  bony  hand  should  reach  round  and 
clutch  me. 

So  far  we  have  seen  nothing  more  awesome  than 
solemn  brown  owls  perched  high  among  the  firs,  silent 
and  meditative  as  cowled  monks.  Occasionally  at  our 
approach  one  slips  noiselessly  away,  though  oftener  he 
sits  motionless,  staring  down  with  tragic  eyes. 

Here,  there,  and  everywhere  among  these  towering 
trees  lie  fallen  ones.  Some  have  tumbled  head  first  into 
the  canyon,  their  mighty  roots,  with  tons  of  earth, 
reared  high  in  air,  -  -  a  hanging  garden  where  green 
mosses  grow,  with  low  bushes,  trailing  vines,  and  even 
fine  young  firs,  promising  scions  of  a  lordly  race.  Across 
these  other  unfortunates  have  fallen  rampant,  while  still 
others  are  stretched  prone  upon  the  ground,  half  buried 
in  woodland  debris. 

Here,  too,  are  trees  left  headless  and  otherwise  dis 
figured  by  fierce  winds ;  and  many  fire  sufferers  also. 
Their  jagged  trunks,  painted  in  motley  colors,  are  left 
in  shapes  both  fantastic  and  wonderful,  —  strange  resem 
blances  to  man  and  beast,  suggestive  of  the  skill  of  some 
wandering  wood-carver. 

The  dullest  fancy  must  see  in  this  burnt-wood  ex 
hibit  the  sculptured  majesty  of  King  Lear  and  the 
picturesquely  posed  Huguenot  lovers ;  also  our  soldiers' 
monument,  where,  poised  upon  a  broken  column,  stands 
a  fine  military  figure  in  full  uniform,  even  to  hat,  epau- 

204 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

lettes,  and  sword.  Believing  him  to  be  a  cavalry  officer, 
we  have  named  him  General  Forrest. 

And,  Nell,  through  a  vista  of  trees  may  be  seen 
emerging  from  the  opposite  wood  a  lady  of  most  aris 
tocratic  bearing,  wearing  a  picture  hat  with  sweeping 
plumes  of  black,  and  a  long  black  cloak  bordered  with 
silvery  gray  fur.  As  she  stands  in  a  twilighty  place, 
she  is  known  as  Our  Lady  of  the  Gloaming. 

I  shall  not  expect  you  to  believe  the  half  of  this, 
unless  you  yourself  have  somewhere  seen  the  strange 
carvings  and  colorings  of  the  fire  artist. 

This  art  gallery  of  Nature's  is  half  screened  from  our 
path  by  naked  branches  of  young  oaks,  through  which 
a  rain  of  gray  moss  is  falling,  giving  an  agreeable  touch 
of  desolation  to  our  surroundings.  For  your  sake  I 
am  willing  to  admit  that  forest  statuary  seen  through  so 
ghostly  a  drop-curtain  may,  from  its  vagueness,  possibly 
receive  an  extra  dash  of  glamour. 

The  farther  up  the  canyon  we  go  the  denser  and 
darker  grow  the  woods.  In  that  time  of  rain  and  mist 
it  was  often  almost  like  night  there,  and  still  as  death, 
unless  the  dogs  got  on  track  of  some  wild  thing  and 
set  the  echoes  flying.  In  that  case  the  yelping  and 
yowling  of  Shady,  the  hound,  must  have  made  even  the 
wood-nymphs  strike  for  tall  timber. 

Sometimes  through  a  small  clearing  we  catch  a 
glimpse  of  "  high  Cromla's  head  piercing  dark  clouds, 

with  squally  winds  in  their  skirts,"  and  see  gray  mists 

205 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

rolling  stormily  through  the  hills.  That  picture,  with 
the  roar  of  the  mountain  stream,  is  like  a  page  from 
Ossian.  The  pool  of  memory  is  stirred.  Half  uncon 
sciously  we  listen  for  the  trembling  harp-strings  and 
tuneful  voices  of  "  aged  bards  with  gray  hair  on  the 
breeze,"  for  the  horn  of  the  hunter  and  the  clash  of 
steely  mail. 

If  from  out  the  tall  pointed  firs  should  come  "  slowly 
stalking  dark-browed  warriors  with  bossy  shields  and 
helmeted  heads  with  red  eyes  rolling  silently,"  I  'd 
blanch  not,  only  stand  with  spiked  pole  uplifted  and 
await  the  onslaught.  As  for  those  very  thin,  dim  ghosts 
of  Ardven,  with  robes  of  flying  mist,  I  'd  fear  them  as 
little  "  as  the  rising  breeze  that  whirls  the  gray  beard 
of  the  thistle." 

Having  once  surrendered  to  the  mood  inspired  by 
the  wild  scenery  of  my  beloved  Oregon  hills,  I  should 
feel  little  surprise  if,  at  the  next  turn  of  our  winding 
trail,  we  came  face  to  face  with  "  the  fair  maids  of 
Woody  Morven,  with  hair  like  the  mist  on  Cromla, 
when  it  curls  in  the  breeze  and  shines  in  the  sun." 
And  even  less  should  I  be  surprised,  if  through  the  tall 
fern  thickets  surrounding  us  should  appear  "  the  branch 
ing  heads  of  dark-brown  hinds,  flying  from  stern  hunters 
with  bows  of  bended  yew  and  the  panting  gray  dogs  — 
long-bounded  sons  of  the  chase." 

Di,  as  a  devotee  of  Scott,  thinks  the  stage  setting 
calls  for  kilted  Highlanders,  with  plumed  bonnets  and 

206 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

tasselled  horns,  for  red-faced  monks  and  jolly  friars,  for 
winding  bugles,  baying  hounds,  screaming  bagpipes, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Farther  up  the  canyon  at  the  right  of  our  path  is  a 
deep  cleft  in  the  hills,  and  there  in  a  most  romantic 
spot  a  spring  of  pure,  sparkling  water  gushes  from 
mossy  rocks  half  hidden  by  ferns  and  buckthorn. 

We  always  make  a  detour  through  this  picturesque 
glen  to  drink  of  this  water  from  cups  fashioned  of  leaves. 
We  could,  of  course,  bring  with  us  a  more  satisfactory 
drinking-cup,  but  that  would  savor  too  much  of  civiliza 
tion,  —  a  thing  we  cannot  brook. 

Oh,  Nell,  if  only  you  could  see  this  crystal  spring  and 
its  wild  environment !  I  'm  sure  it  would  suggest  to 
you,  as  to  us,  the  "  fairy  well  haunted  by  the  White 
Lady."  One  has  but  to  imagine  that  overshadowing 
buckthorn  to  be  holly  —  which  it  so  closely  resembles 
-and  the  illusion  is  complete. 

Standing  there  one  day,  I  said  to  Di :  "I  have  a  mind 
to  call  up  an  apparition,  if  you  think  you  can  look  on 
it  and  live." 

Stepping  forward,  bowing  solemnly  to  holly  and 
spring,  I  repeated  the  well-known  incantation,  — 

"  Thrice  to  the  holly  brake, 
Thrice  to  the  well, 
I  bid  thee  awake, 
White  Maid  of  Avenel !  " 

But  that  golden-girdled  spirit  failed  to  appear. 

207 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

"  The  Lady  seems  not  to  be  at  home,  Di." 
"  No  wonder.  You  forgot  a  very  important  part  of 
the  spell.  Now  watch  me."  Thereupon  that  intrepid 
damsel  stalked  through  the  oozy  moss  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  fountain,  where,  with  clasped  hands  and  "  red 
eyes  rolling  "  wildly  about  the  glen,  she  muttered,  — 
"  It  is  the  place,  the  season,  and  the  hour  !  " 
Then,  gravely  removing  the  rubber  boot  from  her 
right  foot,  balancing  herself  on  the  left,  she  bowed  as 
impressively  as  could  be  expected  from  one  in  that 
stork-like  attitude,  thrice  to  the  holly  and  thrice  to 
the  well,  invoking  the  spirit  in  tones  more  awful  than 
those  of  the  ghost  in  "  Hamlet,"  using  both  verses  of 
the  charm  to  make  all  sure.  Again  we  waited.  Noth 
ing  was  seen,  nothing  heard,  save  the  hurrying  waters 
of  Deer  Leap. 

"  By  my  knightly  word,  this  is  strange  !  "  exclaimed 
the  petitioner,  drawing  on  her  boot.  "  Though  I  be 
think  me  now  I  should  have  brought  hither  me  good 
steel  blade,  or,  lacking  that,  should  at  least  have  waved 
a  bulrush  or  a  hazel  wand." 

"  If  you  'd  like  to  try  again,  Di,  and  think  a  cedar  - 
"  Good  gracious  !  Do  you  think  I  'd  try  to  lure  a 
wood  maiden  from  her  haunts  with  a  spiked  pole  ? 
Anyway,  come  to  think  about  it,  I  don't  want  her  to 
appear,  for  now  we  have  the  freedom  of  her  drawing- 
room,  and  can  stare  around  to  our  hearts'  content." 

Mother  Nature  does  n't  mind  us ;  she  knows  that  we 

208 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

are  just  a  couple  of  tired  mortals  from  out  the  worka 
day  world,  who  have  strayed  into  her  leafy  courts  for 
an  hour's  forgetfulness  of  the  fever  called  living  ;  knows, 
too,  that  the  air  of  her  great  sanitarium  is  apt  slightly  to 
affect  the  brain  of  her  visitors ;  has  learned  to  expect 
nonsense,  and  to  accept  it  with  placid  indifference. 

But  even  the  sanest  could  hardly  stand  in  this  deep, 
narrow  ravine  and  not  think  of  a  city  drawing-room  in 
gala-day  attire. 

Across  the  lower  end  hangs  a  leafy  portiere ;  through 
its  seine-like  meshes  flash  the  silvery  waters  of  Deer 
Leap,  the  upper  one  banked  high  with  firs  and  hemlock; 
a  charming  background  for  the  fern-fringed  fountain,  its 
entire  floor  carpeted  with  thick  green  moss,  which  ex 
tends  up  the  side  walls,  forming  an  effective  dado ;  logs 
and  stumps  upholstered  in  the  same  material  —  massive 
divans  and  hassocks  —  scattered  conveniently  about, 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  our  lady's  guests,  the  merry 
foresters. 

When  I  speak  of  mossy  logs,  Nell,  you  mustn't  think 
they  are  like  ours  at  home,  splotched  here  and  there 
with  that  thin,  dry,  scaly  stuff.  Here,  in  the  rainy 
season,  they  are  swathed  in  it,  as  completely  hidden  as 
if  slipped  into  cases  of —  I  was  going  to  say  plush, 
but  that 's  too  smooth  and  shiny  for  this  intricate 
moss  ;  fashioned  of  millions  of  tiny,  twisted,  curving 
ferns,  it  looks  more  like  curled  astrakhan  or  some  rich 
fur. 

J4  209 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

We  lifted  a  piece  of  the  White  Lady's  carpet,  about 
a  square  yard,  just  to  see  if  she  could  turn  it  when  she 
cleaned  house,  carefully  replacing  it,  you  may  be  sure, 
patting  down  the  edges  that  the  desecration  might  not 
be  noted,  and,  oh,  how  beautiful  it  was,  Nell !  Nature 
couldn't  make  a  lovelier  thing  if  she  tried!  Heavy  as 
a  fleece  of  wool,  so  deep  and  so  soft,  as  luxurious  as  any 
Persian  prayer-rug. 

Now  you  are  saying,  "Katharine  doesn't  know  a 
blessed  thing  about  a  Persian  prayer-rug  !  "  You  are 
mistaken.  Haven't  I  read  that  beautiful  poem  of  Mr. 
Aldrich's,  describing  his,  beginning,  — 

"  Made  smooth  some  centuries  ago 

By  praying  Eastern  devotees, 
Blurred  by  those  dusky,  naked  feet, 
And  somewhat  worn  by  shuffling  knees 
In  Ispahan." 

Now  what  do  you  think  ?  And  that 's  not  all.  I 
once  saw  one  with  my  own  eyes  at  the  World's  Fair 
in  Chicago,  guarded  by  a  red-turbaned,  saffron-tinted 
gentleman,  of  countenance  so  sinister  I  thought  as  I 
looked  at  him :  "  My  Yellow  Peril,  no  prayer-rug  is  ever 
going  to  suffer  much  wear  and  tear  through  your  devo 
tional  exercises !  "  Now  see  how  far  afield  I  am  !  I 
honestly  believe  an  incredulous  friend  is  a  sharper  trial 
than  a  thankless  child  ! 

We  one  day  found  a  perfect  little  bracket  shelf,  just 
the  color  of  old  ivory,  its  outer  surface  all  written  over 


210 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

with  a  fine  tracery  of  sepia-tinted  hieroglyphics.  We  half 
feared,  as  we  pried  and  pulled  it  from  the  tree,  that  we 
were  carrying  off  a  love  sonnet  in  secret  cipher  left  there 
by  some  forest-haunting  Orlando  of  the  hills  for  his  Rosa 
lind.  This  was  Di's  find.  Not  long  ago  I  saw  it  in 
her  dining-room,  fastened  to  the  wall,  holding  a  little 
squatty  brown  and  yellow  jug,  from  which  trailed  two 
or  three  pretty  nasturtium  vines,  with  their  flaming 
blossoms. 

Another  time  we  took  from  an  old  stump  a  most 
striking  facsimile  of  the  bust  of  Shakespeare.  It  was 
of  plastic  material,  much  like  paraffine  wax,  only  cameo- 
tinted,  and  exquisite.  As  this  was  my  discovery,  I 
brought  it  home  and  gave  it  a  background  of  black 
velvet. 

But  I  must  stop  this  rambling  talk,  and  I  will  stop 
right  now,  by  wishing  you  a  happy  Christmas  and  a 
glad  New  Year.  I  came  near  forgetting  it.  It  is  hard 
to  realize  the  nearness  of  the  holiday  season,  when  one 
lives  in  the  woods,  hearing  no  Christmas  talk,  seeing 
none  of  the  flutter  and  excitement  of  it,  and  the  weather 
so  far  from  Christmasy. 

For  several  days  dense  fogs  have  enveloped  the  land. 
To-day  even  the  hills  are  blotted  out,  and  the  fog  creep 
ing  nigher  has  built  a  high  wall  of  gray  around  yard  and 
orchard,  —  one  we  can  neither  see  through  nor  over. 
We  feel  like  castaways  on  some  lonely  island,  with  the 
vague  sea  about  us. 


211 


LETTERS  FROM  AN  OREGON  RANCH 

And  yet  we  know  somewhere  beyond  this  gray- 
ness  Christmas  bells  are  ringing  and  Christmas  carols 
singing. 

You'll  keep  the  day  with  festal  cheer,  and  be  to-night 
in  a  whirl  of  festivity.  We  '11  have  the  biggest,  crack- 
liest,  snappiest  Yule  log  we  can  find,  and  the  brightest 
blaze  a  Rochester  burner  can  produce — and  then  what? 
Why,  just  let  me  tell  you.  Three  brand-new  books,  a 
dozen  magazines,  sent  us  some  weeks  ago  by  a  blessed 
saint  and  kept  by  us  as  a  special  treat  for  the  holiday 
season.  I  can  hardly  wait  till  night.  Just  to  think  of 
those  new  books  with  uncut  pages  gives  me  a  kindly 
"peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man"  feeling. 

Good-bye.     God  bless  us,  every  one. 


THE    END. 


212 


BOOKS  RELATING  TO 
THE    NORTHWEST 


THE    JOURNALS    OF   LEWIS    AND    CLARK 

GASS'S  JOURNAL  OF  THE 
LEWIS   AND   CLARK   EXPEDITION 

THE   CONQUEST 

THE   BRIDGE  OF  THE   GODS 

McLOUGHLIN  AND   OLD   OREGON 

LETTERS   FROM   AN   OREGON   RANCH 

FROM  THE  WEST  TO  THE  WEST 
A   SHORT   HISTORY   OF   OREGON 


(OVER) 


BOOKS    RELATING    TO    THE    NORTHWEST 

The  Journals  of  Captains  Lewis  and  Clark, 

1804-5-6     (McClurg  Library  Reprints  of  Americano) 

Reprinted  from  the  Edition  of  1814.  With  an  Introduc 
tion  by  JAMES  K.  HOSMER,  LL.D.,  an  analytical  Index, 
and  photogravure  portraits  and  maps.  In  two  volumes, 
boxed,  1,083  pages,  gilt  top.  $5.00;^.  Large-paper 
edition,  on  Brown's  hand-made  paper,  illustrations  on 
Japan  vellum,  limited  to  150  copies,  boxed.  $18.00 
net. 

"  The  republication  of  the  complete  narrative  is  both  timely  and  invaluable.  .  .  .  Dr. 
Hosmer  is  well  known  as  an  authority  on  Western  history  ;  hence  to  see  his  name  on  the  title- 
page  is  to  know  that  the  work  has  been  well  done."  —  Portland  Oregonian. 

"  The  celebrated  story  of  the  expedition  of  Lewis  and  Clark  has  now  been  put  in  an 
easily  accessible  form."  —  N.  Y,  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"  Of  the  several  new  editions  of  this  valuable  narrative,  this  is  by  far  the  best  and  most 
complete."  —  Minneapolis  Journal, 

"  We  have  nothing  but  praise  for  this  clear  and  handsome  reprint."  —  The  Nation. 

Gass's   Journal    of    the    Lewis    and   Clark 

Expedition     (McClurg  Library  Reprints  of  Americana) 

Reprinted  from  the  Edition  of  1811.  With  an  Introduc 
tion  by  DR.  JAMES  K.  HOSMER,  an  analytical  Index, 
facsimiles  of  the  original  illustrations,  and  a  rare  portrait 
of  Patrick  Gass.  In  one  square  octavo  volume,  boxed, 
350  pages,  gilt  top.  $3.50  net.  Large-paper  edition, 
on  Brown's  hand-made  paper,  illustrations  on  Japan 
paper,  limited  to  75  copies,  boxed.  $9.00  net. 

The  appearance  of  this  volume  in  the  period  of  Lewis  and  Clark  celebra 
tions  is  especially  pertinent,  as  no  practical  library  edition  has  been  available 
of  the  "Journal  of  Patrick  Gass."  His  narrative  was  for  seven  years  the 
only  source  from  which  any  authentic  knowledge  of  the  great  enterprise 
could  be  obtained.  When  at  last  the  work  based  on  the  diaries  of  the 
Captains  was  given  to  the  world,  the  earlier  book,  so  far  from  being  set 
aside,  was  found  to  be  most  important  as  confirming  and  supplementing 
what  had  been  set  down  by  the  leaders,  and,  in  fact,  has  not  ceased  to  be 
held  in  high  estimation  up  to  the  present  moment. 


A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  CHICAGO 


BOOKS  RELATING  TO  THE  NORTHWEST 

The  Conquest 

By  EVA  EMERY  DYE.  Being  the  True  Story  of  Lewis 
and  Clark.  Third  Edition,  with  frontispiece  in  full  color 
by  Charlotte  Weber.  I2mo,  gilt  top,  504  pages.  $1.50. 

No  book  published  in  recent  years  has  more  of  tremendous  import  be 
tween  its  covers,  and  certainly  no  recent  novel  has  in  it  more  of  the 
elements  of  a  permanent  success.  A  historical  romance  which  tells  with 
accuracy  and  inspiring  style  of  the  bravery  of  the  pioneers  in  winning 
the  western  continent,  should  have  a  lasting  place  in  the  esteem  of  every 
American. 

"  No  one  who  wishes  to  know  the  true  story  of  the  conquest  of  the  greater  part  of  this 
great  nation  can  afford  to  pass  by  this  book."  —  Cleveland  Leader. 

"  A  vivid  picture  of  the  Indian  wars  preceding  the  Louisiana  purchase,  of  the  expedi 
tion  of  Lewis  and  Clark,  and  of  events  following  the  occupation  of  Oregon."  —  Tfu 
Congregationalist . 

"  It  may  not  be  the  great  American  novel  we  have  been  waiting  for  so  long,  but  it 
certainly  looks  as  though  it  would  be  very  near  it."  —  Rochester  Times. 

"  The  characters  that  are  assembled  in  '  The  Conquest '  belong  to  the  history  of  the  United 
States,  their  story  is  a  national  epic." —  Detroit  Free  Press. 

McLoughlin  and  Old  Oregon 

By  EVA  EMERY  DYE.  A  Chronicle.  Fifth  Edition. 
I2mo,  381  pages.  $1.50. 

This  is  a  most  graphic  and  interesting  chronicle  of  the  movement  which 
added  to  the  United  States  that  vast  territory,  previously  a  British  posses 
sion,  of  which  Oregon  formed  a  part,  and  how  Dr.  John  McLoughlin,  then 
chief  factor  of  the  Hudson's  Kay  Company  for  the  Northwest,  by  his  fatherly 
interest  in  the  settlers,  displeased  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  and  aided  in 
bringing  this  about.  The  author  has  gathered  her  facts  at  first  hand,  and  as 
a  result  the  work  is  vivid  and  picturesque  and  reads  like  a  romance. 

"  A  spirited  narrative  of  what  life  in  the  wilderness  meant  in  the  early  days,  a  record  of 
heroism,  self-sacrifice,  and  dogged  persistence ;  a  graphic  page  of  the  story  of  the  American 
pioneer." — New  York  Mail. 

The  Bridge  of  the  Gods 

By  F.  H.  BALCH.  A  Romance  of  Indian  Oregon. 
New  (seventh)  Edition,  enlarged  size.  With  eight  full- 
page  illustrations  by  Laurens  Maynard  Dixon.  Cloth, 
I2mo,  280  pages,  gilt  top.  $1.50.  Paper  edition,  with 
out  illustrations.  50  cents. 

Encouraged  by  the  steady  demand  for  this  powerful  story,  since  its 
publication  twelve  years  ago,  the  publishers  felt  justified  in  issuing  this 
attractive  illustrated  edition.  The  book  has  fairly  earned  its  lasting  popu 
larity,  not  only  by  the  intense  interest  of  the  story,  but  by  its  faithful 
delineation  of  Indian  character.  From  the  legends  of  the  Columbia  River 
and  the  mystical  "  bridge  of  the  gods,"  the  author  has  derived  a  truthful  and 
realistic  picture  of  the  powerful  tribes  that  inhabited  the  Oregon  country  two 
centuries  ago. 

The  Syracuse  Herald  calls  the  author  of  "  The  Bridge  of  the  Gods  "  "  the  best  writer  of 
Indian  romance  since  the  days  of  Fenimore  Cooper." 

A.  C.  McCLURG   dr*   CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  CHICAGO 


BOOKS  RELATING  TO  THE  NORTHWEST 

A  Short  History  of  Oregon 

By  SIDONA  V.  JOHNSON.  With  seventeen  illustrations 
from  photographs,  and  a  map  of  the  Lewis  and  Clark 
route.  i6mo,  320  pages,  indexed.  $1.00  net. 

FROM  HENRY  E.  DOSCH,  Director  of  Exhibits  at  Lewis  and  Clark  Exposition  at 
Portland. 

"Every  home  in  Oregon  might  well  welcome  this  condensed,  readable  'History  of 
Oregon,'  and,  most  important  of  all,  the  school  children  of  the  State  are  entitled  to  an  oppor 
tunity  to  study  it,  to  the  end  that  the  history  of  the  State  and  the  great  and  memorable  achieve 
ment  of  Lewis  and  Clark  may  be  intelligently  understood  and  appreciated  by  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  Oregon  before  the  opening  of  the  Lewis  and  Clark  Centennial 
Exposition." 

Letters  from  an  Oregon  Ranch 

By  "  KATHARINE."  With  twelve  full-page  illustrations 
from  photographs.  Square  Svo.  $1.25  net. 

The  hours  of  delight,  as  well  as  those  of  trial,  which  fall  to  the  lot  of 
"  Katharine,"  in  creating  a  home  out  of  the  raw  materials  of  nature,  are 
chronicled  with  na'ive  humor,  and  in  a  vein  of  hearty  optimism  which  will 
make  a  universal  appeal.  This  year  the  eyes  of  the  entire  country  are 
on  Oregon,  and  it  is  expected  that  a  book  of  this  kind,  giving  such  an 
illuminating  idea  of  the  country,  will  be  of  great  interest.  The  photographs 
which  illustrate  the  volume  are  of  remarkable  beauty. 

From  the  West  to  the  West 

Across  the  Plains  to  Oregon 

By  ABIGAIL  SCOTT  DUNIWAY.  With  frontispiece  in 
color.  I2mo.  $1.50. 

A  chronicle  and  remarkable  picture  of  a  group  of  pioneers  in  their 
journeyings  across  the  plains  and  their  subsequent  settling  in  Oregon.  The 
characters  are  of  the  distinctive  class  of  Western  emigrant  of  fifty  years  ago, 
resourceful,  independent,  and  progressive,  and  in  their  conversation  and  ex 
periences  give  a  vivid  account  of  a  phase  of  American  social  life  that  has 
passed,  as  well  as  foreshadowing  the  active  and  productive  period  that  was 
to  follow.  Though  a  faithful  account  of  an  actual  journey,  the  book  is  in 
the  form  of  fiction,  and  brings  the  course  of  several  romances  to  a  successful 
end. 

These  books  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be 

sent  by  the  publishers  on  receipt  of  price.    An  extra 

for  postage  will  be  made  on  "  net "  books. 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  CHICAGO 


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